


Smith and Wesson Hit the Road

by reading_is_in



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reading_is_in/pseuds/reading_is_in
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the hunt of 4x18, Dean Smith and Sam Wesson reluctantly resume their normal lives – until a dramatic death and a mysterious trench-coated stranger arrives with an urgent message. The self-professed angel Castiel insists that Sam and Dean are chosen warriors, prophesied to defeat Leviathan. Assisted by Cas’s cynical brother Balthazar and chronicled by Sam’s eccentric neighbour Becky, can the trio stop Roman Enterprises before Dick seals the fate of Sandover Bridge and Iron – or just maybe, the world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN J2 Big Bang 2013, and kindly betaed by haisai_andagaii and happygoslucky @LJ. For the AMAZING art by Muffy Morrigan, see the LJ edition of this fic at http://reading-is-in.livejournal.com/125396.html  
> This is an AU in the sense that Smith and Wesson's world is the real one. Contains spoilers up through Season 7. One plot element may appear to come from 8, but I swear to God I thought of it first XD.

Dean Smith swung out of the elevator and aimed a cheeky wink at the girls on the floor reception. The blonde blushed, the redhead giggled from behind her computer, and Dean grinned in return as he reached for his Blackberry. It was a good day. A winter sun shone, Sandover Bridge and Iron’s shares were up 2% from yesterday, and in these economic times, he would take what he could get. Dean’s mind was occupied partly by his new ad campaign, and partly by whether or not he could score a few more packets of that deep Brazilian roast for his Keurig as he made his way into his office.

Ah, Keurig.

It was the little things.

Despite the plaque on the door, the mahogany desk and the appealing city view, Dean Smith was a simple man, and he knew it. He was a man of circumscribed vision, not a politician or a revolutionary or a hero of any description. That being so, he was trying extremely hard not to think about the - the - ghost incident- with the tall dude from IT. Once the adrenalin had worn off, and the sheer horror of a bitch-slap to his worldview had begun to sink in, Dean set about the process of total denial.

There were plenty of sensible explanations. He was overworked; he hadn’t been seeing what he thought he saw; it never happened in the first place and on the odd chance if it did, it would never happen again. Dean Smith had no room for ghosts in his life. No ghosts, or disturbingly attractive, tall, health-club-fit-tanned-skinned-

Okay. Stop.

Dean was straight. Stress reactions were weird things. So Dean did his job and he happened to be extremely good at it. As Mr. Adler was the kind of man who rewarded ability, was paid generously. Dean liked money, or to be specific, he liked the things that money could buy: a nice apartment and financial security. He liked good food, good suits, good coffee and good sex; good heterosexual sex with women -

“Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Adler, appearing in Dean’s doorway. He was frowning.

“Sir?” Dean gulped. When Zachariah Adler frowned, people got fucked. And not in the good way.

“I don’t like what I’m reading, Dean,” Adler said. Dean blanked, before he realized Mr. Adler was holding the business section of the Ohio Telegraph. His eyes dropped to the headline that screamed, “Roman Enterprises Acquires Reliant Steel” complete with a color photo of Roman and his gleaming sharklike grin.

“Crap,” Dean said.

“Reliant should have been ours,” Adler seethed, ignoring Dean’s response. “They felt Roman had more ‘face recognition and trusted American values.’” He punctuated each phrase with finger quotes. “Why don’t I have ‘face recognition,’ Dean? Isn’t that your department?”

“Well sir,” Dean said awkwardly. “You were voted one of Time’s most influential people of 2008-”

“I don’t care about 2008! That was last year! Keep up, boy!” Then his whole demeanour changed. Dean was used to these odd shifts – how Adler would go instantly from tyrant to confidante, even sympathiser. “It’s a tough job Dean. I know it is. But you’re the only one who can maintain the face of this company,” Adler smirked. Dean shrank back a little. “I’m counting on you, son. I don’t want to lose another asset to Roman. Don’t let me down.” When it suited him, Adler’s smile could be every bit as intimidating as his bête-noire’s.

“I won’t sir,” Dean choked out.

“Good! Keep this!” Adler chirped as he tossed the newspaper into the man’s lap. “Figure out what he’s doing and do it better. Oh, and Dean - corporate networking buffet on the fourth floor, 13:00.”

“Yes sir,” said Dean, “See you then.”

“Not if I see you first!” Adler pointed at him with another grin as he backed out of the office. Dean shook off the uncomfortable feeling his boss left behind and called up his event calendar.

*

“Hey, who’s the private eye?” Dean nudged Martin from finance and nodded at the new face. All the Sandover executives knew each other by name and there hadn’t been a great deal of turnover lately. Co-workers talked strategy and synergy between bites of salmon on whole-wheat, but the guy in the beige trenchcoat just stood there. Most of Dean’s colleagues were assholes and ordinarily he would’ve welcomed a little fresh blood, but this stranger stared at him with unnerving blue eyes and an intimidating grave expression.

“I talked to him earlier. Says his name is Castiel. I know, right?” Martin snorted. “Sounds like someone’s parents were hitting the herb a little too hard, huh? Maybe he rebelled against the hippie lifestyle.” They chuckled.

“So, what’s he doing here?” Dean asked.

“Dunno, he’s been hanging around advertising,” Martin shrugged. “Isn’t that your department? Adler trying to keep you on your toes or something? Up the competition?”

Dean narrowed his eyes at the stranger, who simply tilted his head to one side. “I dunno,” he said. “But, I’m gonna find out.” He grabbed a seltzer from the buffet and headed across the room.

“Hey,” he said shortly, offering his free hand, “Dean Smith, head of-“

“I know who you are,” he was cut off. Dean raised his eyebrows. So, he wasn’t the only one checking the competition out! The voice was not at all what he’d expected from the slight build, big blue eyes and pointed features: it was deep and surprisingly gravelly. Its owner made no move to shake Dean’s hand.

“Ooooo-kay,” Dean retracted his arm.

“I am Castiel,” said Castiel.

“So I hear. What kinda name is that, anyway? Swedish?”

Castiel frowned. “Dean, I bring urgent news for you. You are needed.”

“What? Is it Adler?” Dean glanced around in vague panic.

“No,” the frown deepened, and he actually reached out and touched Dean’s sleeve. “We have to talk. It’s not safe here. Come with me.”

“What? Where!?”

Castiel appeared to consider. “The men’s room.”

“Oh, hey, woah – no offense, but I don’t swing that way.”

“Swing – what way?” Blue eyes narrowed at him.

“Excuse me, this is an invitation-only event,” Adler swooped in with a frigid smile. “Who are you?”

“I am Castiel.”

“Alright, and what are you doing here?”

“I have business with Dean Smith.”

“Mr. Smith is engaged. Dean, do we need to talk about scheduling visitors during working hours?”

“Hey, I didn’t – I’ve never seen this guy before,” Dean held his hands up, defensive.

“Ah. In that case,” Adler gestured to a couple of security officers. “I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises.”

“You don’t understand,” Castiel looked troubled, almost – afraid. “It is urgent. The stakes could be greater than any of us know.” Adler’s eyes widened slightly. The beefy security guards were behind him now, making Castiel look small in comparison. Dean had a weird urge to protect the weirdo.

“Is that some sort of threat?” Adler asked slowly.

“Maybe.”

“Who the hell are you, exactly?”

Castiel raised wide eyes: “I am an angel of the Lord.”

Silence.

Then Zachariah laughed abruptly. “Ohhh boy. Now this is a casualty of modern stress. Joseph, Andre, escort this gentleman from the premises.”

“I assure you,” said Castiel, miffed, as one of the beefy guards put a hand on each of his arms, “That I speak the truth. I am unfortunately indisposed at the moment, but were I at full power you would not hesitate to believe me.”

Chuckles. Several execs had gathered to watch the spectacle. Dean felt bad.

“Shouldn’t we – you know – try to find out if someone’s responsible for him? Not just chuck him out on the street?” He tapped the side of his head in illustration of the poor sap’s unfortunate mental state.

“You got a keeper, boy?” Adler snapped.

Castiel looked sad.

“Alright, get him out of here,” Adler’s patience was clearly at an end. “And don’t think this breach of security’s going unnoticed. I want Harper in my office at 15:00, with a full report. Go.” He turned away.

Dean turned away too, but not until he’d caught a last glimpse of the nutjob’s weird, sad eyes, and briefly wished the bottle he still held contained something stronger than water.

*

In an apartment on the other side of the city, Sam woke abruptly from his afternoon nap. It was his one day off that week, and he’d been up late the night before – researching monsters. He tried to sleep but the dreams would not leave him alone. They had become more intense ever since he and Dean had fought Sandover’s ghost together. His dreams had evolved from ghost; now Sam dreamt of the monsters: snake-like things with gaping mouths like primitive sea creatures. He and Dean killed them by chopping off their heads. Yet somehow they just kept reforming. The dreams felt like traps - cycles that kept resetting themselves no matter what he did.

He woke up scared.

And then there was the other kind of dream, the kind that was disturbing in a whole new way. Sam was absurdly attracted to Dean Smith. The attraction itself didn’t distress him – Sam had known he was bi from the age of around fourteen – but their relative situations made it extremely awkward. For one thing, Dean was definitely straight: he’d told Sam to ‘save it for the health club’, after all. For another, he was an exec at the only paid job Sam could see himself doing in the near future – damn recession. Finally, Dean was….kind of a corporate douchebag, with his tailored suits and his silver Prius, his carb-free apartment in a yuppie district. He was basically the opposite of anyone Sam had ever been attracted to. And that was disturbing.

Part of Sam believed that there was more to him – that he’d seen another side to Smith in the midst of their adventure together. He’d given Smith his number and asked him to call, but he never had. Dean Smith, Head of Sales and Marketing, apparently had no further business with Sam Wesson, tech drone.

Sam sighed and turned over on the couch.

The apartment doorbell buzzed.

Surprised, he sat up. He wasn’t expecting anyone. With a quick glance in the mirror and attempt to force his hair into some kind of order, he padded down the corridor and staircase. His visitor looked like some kind of evangelist, with his trenchcoat and tie and his over-earnest expression. Sam really wasn’t in the mood to for a come-to-Jesus spiel, and this might just be the first time ever he closed the door in someone’s face.

“You are Sam Wesson,” said the stranger.

“Uh…yeah?”

“I am Castiel. I have news for you.”

Oh, crap. Had one of these organizations gotten his name? Did he listen too long to the little old lady with the Watchtower brochure?

“You are required in the service of God the Father.”

“Look,” Sam sighed. “I’m really not interested, okay? I mean, good for you, you found God and all-“

His visitor frowned: “I have not found God. I am still looking. He has not been seen in Heaven for generations. I assure you though, when I have ascertained His whereabouts, I will alert you immediately.”

Sam blinked and surreptitiously felt in his pocket for his cell phone. Unless this guy was a secret ninja he could looked like Sam could take  
him, but if he did turn out to be violent-crazy, he could be hiding a knife or something. Trenchcoats had a lot of pockets. “Uh….what church did you say you were from?”

The stranger glared at him: “No church. I have little time for your flawed religions. I am Castiel, an angel, formerly of the twenty-sixth garrison.”

“Right,” said Sam. “Well, I got a bunch of stuff to do, so…” he started to edge the door closed. The stranger made no attempt to stop him.  
Sam latched the door and stood in the hallway for a few minutes.

The buzzer buzzed again.

Something was itching at Sam’s brain. He didn’t like the sensation. There was something familiar about the guy. That – feeling again. The one that had been tormenting him just before he approached Dean Smith. He thought he might be crazy but Sam knew on some deep level that there was more to this.

“If you’ll allow me,” Castiel’s voice was muffled by the closed the door. Sam re-opened it a crack but kept the chain in place. Castiel extended two fingers firmly and touched Sam’s forehead.

A cascade of images blinded him, dreams but infinitely sharper. It was him, and Dean, fighting the monsters, and Castiel was there, but he was different somehow. Powerful. In one image, violently bright and distinct, Castiel stood tall and extended behind him two shadowy, vast wings. Then a man in a business suit grinned, grinned, and his face became that of the monster until, sickly, he devoured a woman alive.  
Castiel withdrew his fingers and Sam blinked, seeing stars.

“You and Dean Smith are called to defeat Leviathan,” said Castiel.

“What – what the -?”

“I will come in,” Castiel offered.

Sam unlatched the door and stepped back, still reeling. Castiel stepped into the hallway and looked around.

“Which way is your apartment?” he asked.

“Um,” Sam felt a little hysterical: “Shouldn’t you know that? Being an angel and everything?”

“I told you, I am cut off from Heaven,” Castiel snapped. “I have only access to the most limited of powers.”

“Woah,” said a new voice. Sam and Castiel both turned to see Becky Rosen standing on the front step, an eco-friendly shopping bag in one hand and a look of intense interest on her face. Becky was one of the more – colorful – denizens of the apartment complex. She lived half her life in a series of sexy supernatural cult novels, dividing the other half between trying to get published and seduce Sam.

“Um, hi, Becky,” said Sam nervously.

“What did he just say?” Becky narrowed her eyes at Castiel.

“Nothing,” Sam said quickly, at the same time as Castiel said:

“I an angel, cut off from Heaven, and have only access to the most limited of powers.”

“Bummer,” Becky sympathised.

Sam resisted the urge to pound his head against the wall. It just figured that Becky would accept all this at face value. He tamped down on the thought that, with her imagination, she might have been closer to the truth than any of them.

“Yeah, it’s….for a play,” Sam said loudly. “That is, we’re rehearsing. Lines.”

“In the hallway?” Becky frowned.

“This is no game,” Castiel frowned harder, and assessed Becky. “You are the apostle Rebecca Rosen. Your task is to record the coming events for future generations.”

“I am?!?” Becky practically squealed: “That’s so cool! Cos you know, I just got my second rejection letter in a month, which is such a downer. The publisher said I had a unique style, but my ideas weren’t marketable.” She made sceptical quotey fingers with her free hand and muttered something about the rampant hetero-biased repression of the publishing industry.

“Just – hang on a minute.” Sam winced. “Why don’t we all just –go up to my apartment. And talk about this,” he added quickly, seeking the excited look appear at once in Becky’s eyes.

“That would be acceptable,” Castiel inclined his head.

“Awesome!” said Becky and held up her shopping bag enticingly. “I have pink wafers!”

 

*

 

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were sitting in Sam’s apartment, cramped around a small table, whilst Castiel methodically consumed an alarming quantity of the wafers. Becky was watching in rapt attention, and Sam was at his computer terminal, scrolling through page after page of hits for the search term ‘Roman Enterprises’.

“So, tell me again why Dean and I have to defeat this guy,” Sam said.

“It is written,” said Castiel mysteriously.

“Written where?”

“In the Book of Life, one of the Seven Heavenly Scrolls.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that it’s talking about us?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Wow.” Sam turned around and blew his breath out. This was rapidly becoming overwhelming. He supposed, in abstract way, that he believed in God – and so – angels – but really in a semi-metaphorical, metaphysical metaphor way, you know? Not in the sense of a dishevelled guy in a trenchcoat sitting stiffly on his couch and methodically inhaling cookies. Still, he couldn’t deny it was nice to have some – well, ratification. That he was meant for more than this. ‘Most people who work in a cubicle think that, my ass’. Something suddenly occurred to him:

“Hey, what did you mean when you said you couldn’t find God? Can’t you just sort of…I don’t know, pray? Call on Him?”

Castiel shook his head: “He doesn’t answer. God is absent. Order in Heaven in maintained by the archangels. It was due to my disagreement with some of their – methods – that I was banished to Earth.”

“For how long?” Becky asked.

“Until I have redeemed myself in the eyes of my superiors,” Castiel said. “I hope that facilitating this mission to stop Leviathan will accomplish that.”

“Well, screw that!” Becky said, affronted. “You shouldn’t have to grovel and beg them to take you back! You said yourself, they’re not God. Just cos you have a mind of your own. Oh my God, this is gold.” With that, she grabbed a notepad of Sam’s off the coffee table and started to scribble frantically. “Hey, what are the archangels like? Are they dicks?”

Castiel looked miffed. “You should not speak of them lightly. Archangels are fierce. Absolute. They’re Heaven’s most terrifying weapon. Moreover, as none of them are currently in physical vessels to my knowledge, they bear no resemblance to male mammalian genitalia.”  
Becky ignored him and carried on writing.

“Okay, so to stop Leviathan has taken the form of his guy, Dick Roman, whom we have to kill. But how do we do that? And how do we get Dean on board with it?”

“They are partly the same question,” Castiel said “The Scrolls say that Leviathan cannot be slain save by the destined warrior.”

“Which is us.”

“Well, it’s either you or Dean Smith who will strike the blow. I’m not sure.” For a second, Castiel looked abashed and thoroughly human. Becky and Sam both stared at him. “The Scrolls are extremely obscure, okay? The oracles speak in riddles.” The angel glared at them.

“So…couldn’t I just try, and if I fail we get Dean?”

“No. The Scrolls definitely speak of a pair bond, such as your Greek poets were wont to glorify.”

Becky started to hyperventilate, squeaking and fanning herself with one hand. Both Sam and Castiel regarded her uneasily, before she finally blurted out, “NOT MARKETABLE MY ASS!” and continued scribbling.

“Both of you are required to smite the Beast,” Castiel said to Sam. “But you also require a special sword.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Becky.

“And…what sword is that?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. Sam bit back a comment about how for an angel, Castiel wasn’t proving to be the fountain of all knowledge here. “But I know who does,” he went on. “One of my brothers, here on Earth. He is something of a collector of Heavenly weapons. But first,” he held up a hand to forestall more questions: “You must convince Dean.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I tried,” Castiel glared at him. “His superior caused some large men to evict me from the building. You must do it. He listened to you concerning the spectre, thus it is only logical he will follow your advice in this case too.”

“Yeah I hate to break it to you,” Sam said, “But we humans aren’t always the most logical of species.” He glanced askance at Becky, who raised her eyebrows in innocence. “But!” He dusted his hands of. “Okay. I’ll try. This is insane, and possibly suicidal, but….”

Becky paused with her pen hovering and made a ‘continue’ gesture. She had already run out one of Sam’s ailing Bics and grabbed a second one.

“...hunting that ghost was the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever done. It was crazy, but I finally felt….right. Like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.”

“You were,” affirmed Castiel.

“And if ghosts are real……” Sam shook his head, “Why not other things? Monsters and...and…angels. And God,” he added suddenly, startled. That one he wasn’t quite ready for.

“Good,” Castiel nodded his head. “Go to Dean. I will attempt to make contact with my brother.”

“How many of you are there?” Becky asked quietly.

“What?”

“How many angels? On Earth?”

“Now?” said Castiel. “Probably hundreds. For the first time in two thousand years, Rebecca, we are walking among you. God is absent, and there is turmoil on Heaven and Earth.”

Sam swallowed hard. Becky hugged the notebook to her chest.

 

*

“Yes?” said Dean immediately at the knock on his office door. He hastily closed the window on Minesweeper. His concentration was shot. He was expecting Adler, but the knock was wrong. It was soft – almost hesitant.

“Hi,” said Sam Wesson, peering around the door.

“I didn’t…have an IT problem,” Dean said.

“I know. That’s not while I’m here.”

“Oh, God. Look, come in,” Dean hastily gestured for Sam to enter before anybody caught sight, and close the door behind him. “I told you already: no more ghosts. I’m out of that.”

“It’s not a ghost.”

Sam looked anxious. It was bizarre on a guy who was actually taller than Dean, but he managed to look like a sad puppy, and Dean had to quash the urge to say something reassuring.

“You okay?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Yeah. No. Can I…?” Sam gestured to the empty chair.

“Oh yeah, sure.” Okay, so Dean wasn’t a total jerk. But he did not want to associate with Wesson. Wesson’s company confused him on multiple levels, from the sexual to the metaphysical, and even now Dean was repressing the urge to just - put a hand on his shoulder. God this guy was just – damn it. He busied himself with getting Sam a glass of water.

“You’re in trouble?” he guessed, handing it over.

“I think we might all be in trouble.”

“I hear that. If Roman secures the Funakoshi deal our stocks are in the toilet.”

“Dean, Roman’s a monster!” Sam blurted.

“Well, he’s a businessman,” Dean mused. “We’ve all done things that are less than upstanding in the pursuit of prof-“

“No! Not like that! I mean he’s a literal monster, as in the supernatural being kind, the kind monster that eats people. It’s called Leviathan.”

Dean sat down hard in his desk chair.

“That…eats people.”

“Yes! Most of his people are monsters too. It’s a many-headed beast. That’s what Castiel was trying to tell you. We have to stop him.”  
“Castiel? You mean the crazy guy in trenchcoat-“

“He’s not crazy. He’s an angel of the Lord. I’ve been dreaming about it. About us.” Sam frowned. “That sounded less weird in my head.”

“Right.” Dean leaned forwards with his elbows on the desk and pressed his index fingers to his lips. Deep in his stomach was a butterfly – singular – a lone creature flip-flapping with nervous excitement and curiosity. Sam – Wesson – was practically vibrating, very alive and very urgent.

Dean crushed it.

“Listen,” he said. “Maybe you should take a vacation.”

“What – but – “ Sam gaped. “You saw the ghost as well as I did! You know this stuff is real.”

“I – don’t know what I saw,” Dean said carefully. “We were both stressed. Plus the first few days on the Master Cleanse really mess with a person’s blood sugar. What I do know is this-” his resolve hardened – “I need this job. I am good at this job, in an era with very few fiscal opportunities. Maybe it’s different down there in there in tech support-“ that was low, and the guilt rushed in even as he said it, the shocked disappointment in Sam’s eyes like a punch to the stomach, “- but execs can’t afford a reputation as a crazy. So if you and this – Castiel – want to play monster hunters, go ahead. Leave me out of it.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

Dean logged onto his computer and started reading.

“You’re not like this,” Sam insisted. “This is a front. I know you care – I saw it.”

“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind, I have a lot to do,” Dean indicated his screen.

“This isn’t over,” Sam said as he stood up.

“It’s over,” Dean replied.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright team,” Adler leaned in and placed both hands flat on the table. “We need this contract. We want this contract. If we don’t get this contract….” He raised his eyebrows. “Well. Cuts are inevitable in the current climate, and I’m not sure that everyone round this table is earning their place, so to speak.” He let his gaze linger on each of the executives, who gulped, shuffled, and dropped their eyes to their blackberries. “Roman’s people are giving their presentations second. That means we get the benefit of first impact, but they’re the ones who’ll be giving the last impression. So leave an impression,” he snarled. Then brightened: “Dean, you’re up. Knock em dead, tiger.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean resisted the urge to salute and hurried out of the boardroom, adjusting his tie as he crossed the corridor. The two investors from Funakoshi International nodded politely at his awkwardly spoken "Konnichiwa" and equally awkward bow. One smiled and said in a distinctly Californian accent: “Afternoon, Mr. Smith”. Cursing his fair skin’s propensity for blushing, Dean set up his slides, and ran through his part of the presentation. He was nervous. He was supposed to be good at this, dammit! Persuasion was one of his talents, and he’d secured more deals for Sandover this way than any number of emails. Maybe he should book a massage or something.

He got out of there as quickly as possible – and nearly ran headfirst into Roman’s people. There seemed to be an unnecessary number of them just for the marketing presentation – two dudes and two women, both of whom were hot, and Dean couldn’t even appreciate it. As they exchanged smirks, he found his eyes drawn to their teeth for a second, then mentally smacked himself.

Didn’t stop him lingering outside the window to watch though.

Fuck it, it was research – they’d no doubt been doing the same to him. Their presentation was slick and professional, and they grinned the whole time, but the investors seemed – unimpressed. Dean did a little internal dance of glee. Ha – four of them, and he still owned. Moreover, the dude in charge looked like he was losing his cool a bit – he was getting angry – he was – arguing with the investors. Jeez, that was never good. He was making a motion to the other dude and one woman – they were coming behind him – what were they, going to fight? No, they were –

\- Throwing back their heads and revealing their cavernous monster jaws.

Oh.

Dean watched frozen in horror as the – Leviathans – rapidly consumed the investors, their shrieks silenced by the soundproof walls, and morphed into their appearance. Okay, he was gonna puke. He wasn’t authorized to deal with this situation. Could he delegate? No, he couldn’t delegate. In truth there was only one thing he could do, bar running to the men’s room to weep like a little girl.

He ran to the men’s room, checked for listeners, and called Sam.

 

*

“Angels,” said Dean a little hysterically. “Angels and monsters. This was not part of my life plan, Sammy. My life plan involved promotion inside five years and regional management sometime in the next decade.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam was actually grinning, the bastard, and Dean thought meanly that he wasn’t the one giving up the 6-figure salary to save the world. Because Dean had not only lost the deal, but he hadn’t turned up to work for the first time ever and given no explanation. Techs did it all the time, till HR pulled them. Execs…didn’t. Dean was reasonably sure he was fired now. He cast a longing glance around the sleek lines of his apartment, wondering how he could keep up the mortgage.

“Your concerns are misplaced,” said Castiel. Castiel the angel. “I believe you fail to realize the gravity of this situation. If you do not complete this mission, there will be no more Sandover. There will be no more - regional management, as you put it.”

“’Cause Leviathan will have eaten us all. Right,” Dean sighed. “Okay, what do we have to do?”

“I have ascertained the whereabouts of my brother, Balthazar. He was formerly a weapons-keeper in heaven. He will surely possess the weapon required to kill Leviathan.” He stood up.

“Woah – wait, Cas,” Dean said, the nickname coming to him as though he had said it a hundred times before. “We can’t just – go.”

Castiel frowned: “Why not?”

“Well, I don’t know about Sam here, but I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours now.” It was true. He’d  
been unable to sleep before the big presentation, then between calling Sam, and waiting for Castiel to show up when they’d left a message on his cellphone (and yes, apparently, angels of the lord carried cellphones in 2009, who knew?), Dean was seriously behind on the 8 hours recommended for optimum performance.

Sam asked Cas: “Will it make any difference if we wait until morning to start out?”

“It is morning.”

“It’s 1 am. Can you give us like 5 hours?”

Castiel pursed his lips. “Five hours,” he conceded. “I will visit the apostle. Be ready when I return.”  
There was a noise like a flutter of wings, Dean blinked, and then Castiel wasn’t there anymore.

“So…I guess I owe you a major apology,” he said to Sam.

Sam made a dismissive gesture. “We’re cool. I didn’t believe it either at first.”

They stared at each other. Dean found his pulse refused to decrease to normal. Residual adrenalin, obviously.  
“So – the couch folds out,” he offered, at the same time Sam started to say,

“I can sleep on the floor,” then: “Oh, cool. I can use that.”

“Maybe I should. You’re kinda ridiculously tall.”

Sam grinned, a surprisingly boyish smile that made something clench slightly in Dean’s chest. “Nah. I’ll be fine. I’m not gonna take over your bed, man.” Oh, Christ. Dean did not hear that in a dirty way. Not at all.

“Okay so I’ll see you in five hours,” Dean said hurriedly, and backed out of the room. He collapsed on his bed, and the only possible way to release adrenalin after all that was to jerk off. What, he had to get to sleep! Sometimes guys got kind of hard when they were worked up, okay? Didn’t he read that on WebMD? Okay, sleep now. Don’t think about anything. Not Sam, or Leviathan, or creepy vanishing angels.

*

The couch was predictably too short for Sam to stretch out on, but he wasn’t that sleepy anyway. Now that there was a plan, he wanted to get started on it. Moreover, that exchange with Dean had just woken him right up. Dean Smith was hot. And he probably wasn’t an executive anymore, and about to undertake an adventure with Sam. He was also as deep in denial as any man Sam had ever seen, so that was awkward.  
Eventually he did doze off, and opened his eyes to find Castiel hovering over him in the dark. Sam jumped a mile and sat bolt upright.

“My apologies,” said the angel gravely. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Okay,” said Sam, breathing out. “Just – um – don’t sneak up on people like that, okay? We humans generally don’t like it.”

Castiel inclined his head in acknowledgement. Sam suddenly thought to ask: “Hey – Castiel, how old are you, anyway? Is this the first time you’ve been on Earth?”

“I have been observing the world for millennia,” Castiel said, “That is my nature. But this is the first time I have taken a human form and walked upon the earth.”

“Because of the…trouble in heaven?”

“Yes. Moreover because Dean is my charge, and it is thus my duty to lead him to his calling.”

“Your – what? You’re Dean’s guardian angel?”

“Yes.”

“So – where’s mine?” Sam couldn’t help the slighted frown he knew crossed his features.

“Yours will not come.”

“Well – why not?!”

“He is, ah,...as I believe you would say...he is an asshole.”

Sam sputtered and gaped at the angel. Castiel wore the same grave expression as always. At that moment, the lights flickered on, and Dean emerged from the bedroom. Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean looked like a suburban dad ready for a weekend of camping. He wore neat khaki trousers that had clearly never been off the hanger, a waterproof coat, a backpack and hiking boots. A Swiss army knife peeked out from one his numerous pockets. He was also wearing glasses, apparently having abandoned his contacts, and Sam couldn’t help but admire the effect for a moment. Only the iron poker he was clutching in one hand ruined the image.

“Salt’s in the bag,” he said gruffly, and glared at Sam, as though daring him to say anything about his attire. “I got protein bars too, and there’s coffee in the machine.” Castiel made no comment, but allowed Sam a few minutes to freshen up in the bathroom – he really would have liked to stop by his apartment and change clothes, but he had his wallet, and didn’t want to piss the angel off any further. He figured he could always buy the essentials – if there was ever a time to exceed his credit limit, this was it.

“Which of your automobiles will we be utilizing?” Castiel asked.

“Automobile?” Dean frowned, and Sam could just see him imagining mud, blood, and other messes on his Prius’s upholstery. “Can’t your brother just sort of – zap in? Like you do?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel said dryly. “But he will not.”

“Well can’t you – zap us to him?”

“No, I cannot,” said Castiel shortly, in a tone that brooked no question.

“We can take my car,” Sam offered, and a look crossed Dean’s face: Sam glared at him, daring him to comment on his 1998 Dodge Neon. He watched Dean weighing up the options. Then,

“No,” Dean said finally. “We’ll take mine. I want to drive.”

“Cannot this contraption go any faster?” asked Castiel twenty minutes later.

“Well it could,” said Dean offendedly, “If we weren’t stuck in traffic. You want me to bulldoze those other cars?”

Castiel looked intrigued.

“Th – well – I can’t!” Dean exclaimed. “It doesn’t work like that! Where exactly are we going to, anyway?”

“Trump International Hotel and Tower,” said Castiel.

“That’s in New York!” exclaimed Sam.

“As is my brother,” said Castiel.

“Jeez, I thought we were driving across the city of something,” Sam complained. He was confined to the backseat as Cas was navigating, and his legs hurt already. “We should have flown.”

“No flying!” snapped Dean and Cas in bizarre unison.

“O-kay…” said Sam.

“Hey, you don’t like planes either?” Dean said to Cas. “Man, don’t get me started on those steel deathtraps. Did you know that the brace position is basically a conspiracy to make sure you die instantaneously on impact? To avoid a panic and all.”

“I have never had cause to utilize an aeroplane,” Castiel said, frowning. “I thought Sam was referring to actual flying, which I am – ill-equipped to perform at this precise moment.”

Pause.

“Oh,” said Sam. “Uh, sorry.”

Castiel shuffled like a huffy bird ruffling its feathers. At that moment a light changed and the traffic in front of them started to ease up, letting them on to the interstate out of Ohio.

*

“Well, that’s three hours,” said Dean, pulling neatly off the road into the offramp for a rest stop. “Time for a safety break.”

“I could drive for a while,” said Sam.

Dean looked mortified: “But you’re not on my insurance!”

“I want ice cream,” said Castiel. They both looked at him, having expected a protest at the delay: “I have learned from the people in the television that it is customary to ingest ice cream on stops during road trips. Also caffeinated beverages.”

“I could definitely go for a coffee,” said Dean. “Um, so you – need to eat?”

“I do not need to eat. But I do not know how long I will be here on Earth for, thus I am attempting to acclimatize.” Sam caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, and his heart twinged a little: Castiel looked sad, and like he was trying to be brave, and Sam thought for the first time about what it must be like for him, exiled from Heaven. Dean must have picked up on it too, because he said,

“Ice cream it is then,” clapping the angel on the shoulder a little too heartily, and they parked in the lot of a well-equipped rest stop. Castiel made a beeline for the cafeteria, so they followed him, Dean grabbing a couple of coffees from the machine before joining them at the ice cream counter where Castiel had his nose pressed against the glass.

“Um, can I help you?” asked the teenage server.

“What flavor do you want?” Sam nudged the angel.

Castiel looked confused. “I do not know. How can I decide which is preferable, when I have never experienced any of them before?”

“Cherry Garcia,” advised Dean, but Sam said,

“Most people start with vanilla.”

“You never had ice cream before?” asked the server incredulously.

“He means, uh, Ben and Jerry’s. He never had Ben and Jerry’s before,” said Sam hastily.

“Don’t know what you’re missing,” the teen advised.

“I wish to try all of the flavors,” said Castiel determinedly.

“Uh, well, there’s no rush,” Dean said nervously: “Ice cream isn’t going anywhere. You don’t have to try them all right now.”

“All of the flavors.” Castiel reminded Sam sharply of his neighbour’s two-year-old when she was gearing up for a serious meltdown. The server was starting to look uncomfortable, and Sam decided that a hasty  
compromise was in everyone’s best interest. Castiel set his seven-scoop bowl down carefully on the table: he had chosen a mixture of classics like chocolate and vanilla, and some of the more outlandish offerings, such as ‘food of the fish’. Sam and Dean sat on one side of the booth, Castiel on the other, ploughing his way through the heaped bowl with quiet determination. The scoops disappeared with alarming speed.

“What do you think?” Sam couldn’t resist asking eventually.

Castiel considered. Then: “Ice cream is delicious. However, I find that the after effects are decidedly unpleasant.”

“After….effects?” Dean asked.

“This vessel’s stomach is making peculiar motions,” said the angel calmly.

Sam groaned, and Dean put his head in his hands.

“Paper rock scissors?” Sam suggested. He guessed Dean for a scissors man, and he was right, thus avoiding the task of escorting Castiel to the bathroom.

“I just wanted to say, it’s so good of you,” said a middle-aged woman, leaning in to touch Sam on the shoulder as Dean ushered Cas off with a death-glare: “You and your partner.”

“Huh?” said Sam intelligently, as his brain said, ‘Partner?’

“To take care of that poor soul like that….get him out for a bit. Have you and your boyfriend ever considered adopting? Not to pry, but my brother and his husband say it was the best decision of their lives.”

“We’re – um – it’s certainly on the cards for the future,” Sam gave the woman his most beatific smile, and she fluttered and beamed in return.

“Angel puke,” Dean grouched, sitting down again with a disheveled Castiel: “Guess what, it’s exactly like regular puke.”

“I do not see the point in ingesting food, if it is only to return from whence it came,” said Castiel unhappily.

“Well, that’s what happens when you try all the flavors.”

“Dean, don’t be mean to him,” Sam couldn’t help smiling a little.

“Is there a shop on site?” Dean asked. “We need to pick up some pepto bismol. And wet wipes.”  
The woman beamed at Sam again over Dean’s shoulder and gave him a little wave.

*

They put Castiel in the back seat, where he watched the scenery, and eventually fell asleep with his head on one side in awkward-looking position.

“Angels sleep?” Dean asked.

“I guess this one does,” Sam said. “Or maybe it’s – you know – what he said, the vessel.”

“That weirds me out,” Dean said. “He’s effectively using some guy’s body.”

“Maybe the guy really wanted it,” said Sam. Their eyes caught in the rearview mirror, and Dean felt a blush  
rise to his cheeks, which he attempted to quash by sheer force of will. Sam seemed to realize what he’d said, and cleared his throat. They both looked out the windscreen for a moment.

“So,” said Dean finally, searching for a topic. “Tech support, huh? How’s that working out for you?”

“I quit,” said Sam.

“What?”

“Right before I left the office yesterday. I figured if ever there was a sign…” he shrugged.

“Well, uh, you have something lined up, I guess?” Dean floundered a little.

“Nope,” Sam leaned back in the passenger seat. “Well, yeah. This.”

Dean blinked: “You’re serious.”

“I am. Looks like I was right, and this is what I was meant to do. You too, if you’d admit it.”

“Uhhh no. What I am meant to do is head the marketing department at Sandover Bridge and Iron. I am playing along with this train wreck because if I don’t, Sandover Bridge and Iron is apparently history.”

“So you like your job?”

“Sure!”

“So you’re happy?”

“Jeez, what’s with the third degree, Sammy?! Who the heck is ‘happy’?” Dean’s voice was rising to alarmingly unmasculine registers, and he made a concerted effort to draw it back into range. He took his eyes off the road to glance at Sam, who was staring intently at him with his unusual eyes. They really were interesting eyes, slightly slanted, and on first glance appearing brown; but on closer inspection contained green and even blue depending on the light. ‘Uhh, what the fuck?!?’ Dean mentally slapped himself and deducted six masculinity points. “What does that even mean anyway?”

“Just asking,” Sam said and turned back to the road. Dean found that he was breathing a little harder than normal. Being stuck in a car with a person could make you intensely aware of their physicality, in totally platonic way, their body heat and the press of their legs against the seat cushion.

“Rest stop!” Dean blurted frantically.

“It’s been less than two hours,” Sam gave him a weird look.

“Yeah well, I gotta pee. I drank all that coffee before and then I forgot to go. You shouldn’t hold it too long, you know, it can give you a bladder infection.”

Sam looked like he was trying not laugh. “If you say so, grandpa.”

“Shut up, you just wait till you hit thirty.”

“I consider it every day,” said Sam somberly, and turned to watch for an exit sign.

*

Trump International Hotel and Tower filled Sam with discomfort and a vague sense of Puritan condemnation. In the foyer, he returned the silently-judging stares of with equal and opposite distaste – though he did wish he’d thought to shower at the second rest stop. Dean looked like he was impressed and trying not to show it. A beautiful woman in a fitted red dress swept past and gave him a second look. He lit up like Christmas tree and grinned at her before she rolled her eyes and attached herself smoothly to the arm of a man in suit that probably cost a year of Sam’s former salary. Everything was pale gold, cream, brown and white, clean lines and high ceilings with two chandeliers just large enough to be extravagant but not garish.

“Sirs,” said a bellhop, sidling up to them and looking them up and down: “May I be of assistance?” He was addressing Dean, who even after a 10-hour drive still looked vaguely professional – Sam probably looked like a poor grad student on winter break, and Castiel like an eccentric detective. Still it was the angel who answered:

“We are here to see my brother. He is currently residing on the premises.”

“I…see. And the name?”

“He goes by many names,” Castiel pursed his lips.

“Is there a problem?” a woman with a gilded badge reading ‘manager’ descended upon them.

“Not at all,” interrupted a third voice in a suave British accent. “Cassie. Darling. Wonderful to see you.” A lean, blond, middle-aged man in a black suit jacket and grey shirt unbuttoned to the chest inserted himself between Castiel and the staff members, taking his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. Castiel looked uncomfortable.

“Oh!” the staff’s attitude made a U-turn: “Mr Roché!” exclaimed the woman. “We weren’t aware you were expecting guests.”

“Yes yes, Cassie’s always surprising us,” the blond man waved a hand dismissively . “Cherie, be a saint, have a bottle of 28 Krug sent to the suite, would you?”

“Of course Mr. Roché,” the manager enthused. “Will you and your guests be requiring anything else?”

“Not at this time.” “Mr. Roché”’s dismissed. “We’ll let you know,” he cast his eyes over Sam and Dean. He turned and headed towards the elevator. Castiel followed. Sam looked at Dean and shrugged – they had no choice but to follow too, and subsequently found themselves in the most atrociously lavish suite Sam could possibly imagine. It had its own lobby, for chrissakes, approximately the size of Sam’s apartment, with the same gold/brown/cream colour scheme as the hotel foyer. Panoramic full wall windows provided a view of the city below, and a massive ornate mirror in another wall gave the impression the room receded forever. Doors led off to either side – bed and bath, Sam could glimpse, and a low deep-oak table displayed a variety of finger foods before a cream leather couch.

“Well,” said their host, spinning on his heel to embrace Castiel, then holding him at arm’s length for a moment. “You look - well, you look like something a cat half-digested then spewed on a Persian rug. What happened?”

“I am experiencing – difficulties,” Castiel said tightly. “Since being cut off from Heaven I find my powers diminished significantly. You do not seem to be suffering from any such……diminishment.”

And Sam realized they were looking at each other, but not in the way he and Dean saw each other or saw them. They were looking into each other – the angel part, Sam presumed – zoning in on the non-physical though they held each other’s eyes just two humans would.

“Well, pish,” said the other angel. “For what it’s worth. Making fabulous wealth and spending it mostly,” he shrugged.

Castiel frowned. “Sam, Dean, this is my brother, Balthazar.”

“Charmed,” Balthazar glanced at them then refocused on Castiel. “Please, have a seat, help yourselves to whatever you’d like.”

“We were soldiers of the same garrison,” Castiel held Balthazar’s gaze. “You have…changed, brother.”

“You disapprove. Please, Cassie, say what you mean – dissembling was never your strong suit.”

Dean nudged Sam and mouthed, ‘CASSIE?’

“We require your help,” Castiel said. Balthazar’s expression changed, became more serious:

“What is it?”

“Leviathan is on Earth. I have reason to believe that these are the warriors the Scroll spoke of.” Balthazar raised an expressive eyebrow, but held his tongue. “You have the blade they require to kill it, correct?”

“Ah,” Balthazar said.

“You are the weapons keeper of heaven,” Castiel glared.

“Yeah, not so much anymore,” Balthazar ducked out of Castiel’s direct vision and flung himself onto the couch.

“Look, I do have a blade that will do it, but it’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Ritual preparation,” Balthazar sighed. “You know what Heaven’s like when it comes to ritual. You have to activate the bloody thing. Catch.” Apparently out of thin air, Balthazar produced a blade, and tossed it in the general direction of Sam and Dean. Dean was already ducking, about to take some kind of appetiser from the table, so Sam forced himself not to flinch and grabbed the thing by its wooden handle with only the smallest exclamation of alarm. It was heavy, dark metal, with strange engravings up and down both sides.

“What the hell!” yelled Dean, raising his hands to check if the sword had taken any hairs off the back of his head.

“What do you mean activate?” Sam wanted to know.

“According to the Scrolls, Leviathan can be slain with a bone washed in the blood of the Three Fallen,” Balthazar picked a long-stemmed glass from the table and twirled it between his fingers. “That would be angels, humans and monsters, for the uninformed amongst us.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Balthazar waved them into seats whilst he collected the bottle from room service. He poured himself and each of his guests a glass of champagne, tipping the bellboy with a hundred dollar bill. Castiel downed his glass like it was water; Balthazar savoured his; Sam and Dean took their first sips and exchanged surreptitious looks of distaste.

“So, angels and humans we have,” Sam made a circular gesture to encompass the people in the room.

“Only angels,” said Castiel. “Fallen humans are demons.”

“Excuse me, demons?” Dean had abandoned his champagne for a handful of bruschetta. Apparently when confronted with Leviathan, carbs were back on the menu. “Demons are real?”

“Yes.”

“As in, little red dudes with pitchforks and horns on their heads?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in Dean’s direction. Sam was beginning to read that look as, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, but I sense it is something extremely stupid’.

“They wear humans,” Balthazar said. “Just like us. The only way to tell a possessed human by sight is if their eyes turn black.”

“Yeah about that,” Sam had to ask: “How do the humans you’re currently – wearing – how do they feel about you walking around in their bodies?”

“They consented,” said Castiel shortly. “This vessel belongs to a man of faith. It is his honor to serve.” Sam could see Dean gearing up to make a comment, probably about puking ice-cream, and he nudged him to keep quiet.

“And this handsome bastard had very little to live for,” Balthazar shrugged. “I know, I know, you’d never guess.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Let me get this straight – we have to wash - that-,” he gestured the blade, “in the blood of a monster, a demon, and…”

“Me,” Castiel supplied.

“…then find Dick Roman, get past the multiple layers of security he has at any time, and,” he swallowed, “stab him.”

“In essence,” said Castiel.

“Awesome,” said Dean. “I am so very, very fired.”

“Maybe not,” said Castiel. “An angel at full or even half strength could erase your senior officer’s memory of your absences.” He looked at Balthazar. “Brother?”

“Meh,” said Balthazar.

“What? What does that mean?” Dean demanded.

“It means I don’t like you,” Balthazar grinned. “We’ve only just met, and so far you’ve been nothing but uncouth. You speak rudely, poured most of glass of '28 Krug into that plant pot, and you haven’t even glanced at that Monet original placed so conveniently opposite. I’m not inclined to enable your philistine occupation. Though….” His gave travelled to Castiel, and softened. “My little brother here is fond of you. Inexplicably. As a favor to him, I might consider it. If you impress me.”

“That’s – well that’s great,” Dean sneered. “Complete three tasks to impress fairy king, and I get my life back?”

“Four tasks,” Castiel corrected. “If you include Dick.”

Sam snorted and covered it with a wineglass. “Are the bloods supposed to be mixed together, or one at a time?” he asked.

“Mixed together,” said Balthazar. “Now chop chop, times a-wasting,” He clapped his hands. “Castiel? First blood?” Castiel started to roll up the sleeve of his trenchcoat.

“Is it worth me asking why you don’t bleed on it?” Dean asked Balthazar.

“He’s more Fallen than I am,” Balthazar said breezily. “Besides, this shirt is Gaultier.”

Dean glared at Balthazar whilst Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Castiel took a sharp knife from the table and started to draw it up his arm. Blood ran swiftly into a bowl from the table.

“Hey – woah – that’s enough Cas, you’re going to cut a vein!”

“Yes. The purpose of this exercise is to obtain blood.”

“Yeah but – leave some for your vessel to use!”

Sam mentally facepalmed as Castiel cocked his head at him, frowning, then proceeded to turn ever paler and his knees buckled. Balthazar sighed and caught him before he could faceplant, taking the knife from him and touching two fingers to Castiel’s forearm. Sam blinked – when he looked again, the bleeding had stopped, and the cut had closed, looking days old instead of seconds.

“That’s….a neat trick,” said Sam slowly.

“Sloppy,” Balthazar looked regretfully at his work. “Not long ago, I could have healed that completely with a thought.” Then he shook himself. “Well, one down, two to go! I’ll keep the blood here while you obtain the others – don’t want to end up spilling it. Right then,” he sipped his champagne and waved a hand at Sam and Dean, “Off you go.”

They both looked at Castiel, who still appeared vaguely dazed.

“I’ll keep him,” Balthazar said testily. “You know what you have to do now, and you obviously aren’t doing a very good job of looking after him.”

“No,” said Castiel. “They need my guidance. And you, brother, who know what I am, should not infantilize me.”

He glared at Balthazar, and for a second, something bright and sharp and intimidating flashed behind his eyes.  
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “Busted angel is better than no angel,” said Dean.

“It will take me but a few moments to restore myself,” Castiel said. “In the meantime, you should contact the apostle.”

“The what?” Dean demanded. Sam quickly filled him in on the Becky Rosen situation.

“Contact her,” Castiel commanded, “And inform her of what has come to pass.”

“I – don’t have her number,” Sam lied.

“You will utilize the window through space in the computer,” Castiel said. “The apostle showed it to me.”

Sam blanked for a moment, then realized: “You mean Skype?”

“You may reach her at this address.” Castiel fished in one of his coat pockets and produced a folded sheet of purple notebook paper. Sam opened it to reveal the email ‘wincestlvr42@gmail.com’ inside a series of hearts.

“There’s a laptop in the bedroom,” Balthazar offered.

“I’ll come,” Dean said, probably in order to get away from Balthazar, failing to heed the warning that Sam was sending him with his eyes.

“What’s a wincest?” Dean asked as Sam booted the computer up. Sam briefly considered explaining Becky’s love for an obscure book series, and her insistence that its sibling protagonists were locked torrid sexual co-dependence, but dismissed it for another time. “No idea,” he said, logging into Skype.

wincestlvr42 is online. Naturally.

“SAM!” Becky bounced. “Are you alright?”

“We’re fine, thanks, Becky…”

“Oooh, is that Dean? Move out of the way, let me see him.” Sam practically ducked and left Dean to receive the full force of Becky’s excited perusal. “Nice,” she decreed. “So are you two-“

“We’re at the Trump International in New York,” Sam cut her off before she could say anything embarrassing.  
They filled Becky in on events since they’d seen her, and what was necessary to kill Leviathan.

“Wow, okay,” she blinked, typing frantically in another window . “That’s – gosh. It’s just sinking in that like, demons are real, you know? I mean, I always suspected….” She shook her head. Then her mouth set, as  
serious as Sam had ever seen her. “You guys have to be careful,” she said.

“Thanks Becky, we will.”

“Seriously. I’m no good at sad endings. One time, I decided to write this deathfic, where the boys saved the world but they both died and God, it was brutal, and the reviews were mostly like WTF, how could you do that to-….”

Dean mouthed ‘what the hell’ at Sam from out her line of sight.

“Anyway, that’s pretty much it for the moment,” Sam said loudly.

“Okay,” Becky blew out her breath, and a strand of blonde hair jumped out of her face. “Got it. You guys…” her chin quivered momentarily and her eyes widened to near-anime proportions. “Call me, okay? And tell me if there’s anything I can do.”

“We will, Becky.”

They logged out, and clicked onto a local news site in search of leads on a monster.


	3. Chapter 3

“I dunno,” Dean laid the paper down on the tabletop: “Doesn’t this just sound like your standard issue pervert?”

“Police say they have no further leads,” Sam replied, tapping the relevant line of text: “The last suspect was released yesterday.”

“This bears all the hallmarks of a goblin,” said Castiel.

The coffee shop was a compromise between the chains Dean naturally gravitated towards and the hippie college place Sam had voted for. After the internet had failed to deliver any leads, and Balthazar kicked them out, they had checked into a Holiday Inn on Dean’s Mastercard and crashed for the night. They got adjoining rooms with a shared shower, and Castiel disappeared to wherever he went whilst the humans attended to such trivial matters. When Dean awoke, the first thing on his mind was coffee, and as newspapers seemed the best place to look next for leads, a coffee shop was the obvious choice.

Dean got a black coffee and an egg-white omelette, regretting the indulgences of yesterday. Sam got a whipped mocha latte with vanilla syrup and a muffin the size of a dinner plate. Dean called him something derogatory but couldn’t help sneaking glances at his breakfast (and not at all at the way Sam unconsciously licked the whipped topping from his upper lip with a flicker of pink tongue) until he finally blurted out,

“How can you eat like that and look like you do?”

“Like I…do?” Sam blinked innocently.

“Have like 6% body fat or what the fuck ever,” Dean grumbled.

“I have a fast metabolism,” Sam said with a definite flirtatious glance: “Plus I work out.”

Dean turned bright red and inhaled half of his coffee.

“What do you mean, goblin?” he asked Castiel now.

“Or troll,” said the angel: “There is some debate over whether they ought to constitute a separate species.”

“Don’t goblins like, live in the woods?” Sam frowned. “You know, deep, dark, forests?”

“That is their preference,” Castiel acknowledged, “But like most creatures, they are adaptable, and there does not appear to be an abundance of forests in the vicinity. I could imagine the dark, damp cellar of an apartment block providing an acceptable substitute.”

According to the article, seven people had gone missing from the same apartment block over the past three years, two of them children, which Castiel said could provide the bare minimum for a goblin to eat during times of famine. “Though they have voracious appetites, they are able to place themselves into semi-hibernation, retreating and storing the energy from a single corpse for months.”

“Uh, hold up,” Sam said. “That’s all well and good, but don’t you think someone would, well, notice the fact that a mythical creature has set up camp in their basement?”

“It is a magical creature, Sam.” Castiel said witheringly. “It has probably burrowed into the walls and concealed the entrance.”

“Wow,” Dean said. Call him crazy, but he almost felt bad for the little dude…far from its natural habitat, eking out a living on apartment dwellers, retreating into its cave…

“Goblins are exceptionally bloodthirsty and cruel monsters,” said Castiel flatly. “They have a penchant for cutting out the tongues of their victims, that they might not scream for help, then dismembering them slowly and consuming the first of their flesh whist their unfortunate prey is still alive.” Sam and Dean exchanged horrified looks.

“Okay, so,” Dean clapped his hands. “How do we kill them?”

A passing teenager in skater jeans paused and glanced at them nervously.

“Um. Lice,” Sam grinned broadly and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Bitch to get rid of them all.”

“Dude, you should try shaving,” advised the kid. “Same thing happened to a buddy of mine and he says it was the only thing that got em.”

“Um. Cool,” said Dean with a weak thumbs up: “Okay, awesome.” The kid nodded and went on his way. “Right, so moral dilemma conveniently solved,” Dean said: “I repeat – how do you kill them?”

“I do not know,” said Castiel, then with that feather-ruffled look: “It was hardly my department.” Dean sighed and recalled the tiny browser on his phone. The first page of hits from Google referred to video games, but soon after that he came across a site called ‘The Warrior’s Way’. With a black background and pseudo-Celtic font, it appeared to take itself seriously enough, listing descriptions and weaken points of a variety of monsters.

“No goblins, but it says trolls can be killed with an iron blade.”

“That makes sense,” Castiel nodded. “The purity of iron can subdue many unholy things.”

“Great,” Dean said sarcastically, “I’ll just whip the iron blade out of the trunk.” There was a long pause, during which Cas waited patiently, and Dean was forced to clarify: “I don’t have an iron blade! Where the heck would a person get something like that?!”

“Antique store?” said Sam doubtfully. They all looked at each other, then Dean shook his head. “No no wait, there’s got to be like, a knife shop or something. I mean, this is New York City.” He tapped into the blackberry again, then pronounced, “Got it! Mastersmiths, 403 East 58th, ‘the first and only complete knife and sword store in the city’. Hey, this is pretty cool.” He got carried away clicking through the archives for a moment.

Dean declined to drive in New York unless truly necessary. So within the next forty-five minutes he fulfilled a lifelong dream (of standing on the curb and yelling ‘TAXI!’) and nearly had an aneurysm as their driver swerved nonchalantly in and out of the honking jams with no apparent consideration for either his vehicle or their safety.

From the outside, Mastersmiths looked pretty much like a rundown apartment building, but inside it was all glass counters and cool wall displays, wicked looking blades of all lengths hung and mounted on stands. Castiel strode right up to the middle-aged man cleaning a dagger behind the counter, and said,

“We require a blade with which to kill a goblin.”

The man raised one heavy eyebrow and told him, “D and D meets next door, and its tomorrow.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him and cocked his head to one side.

“Uh….” Sam cut in, “What my friend means is, we need an iron sword.”

“Why?” the man still looked suspicious. “Steel’s stronger and more flexible.”

“Um…his...torical re-enacment society!” Dean improvised, stepping up behind Sam. “This guy, he’s just a stickler for authenticity.”

“You don’t say. Well,” the man got to his feet with an air of deliberation: “Might have a couple of iron pieces in storage...won’t come cheap though.”

Dean produced his wallet and flashed his MasterCard. The man nodded and headed into the back, coughing on a word that sounded suspiciously like ‘whipped’. Sam suppressed a laugh, Dean ground his teeth, and Castiel looked vaguely troubled.

“Where’s that guy get off, assuming like that?!” Dean exclaimed as they headed out of the store, plus two heavy, ugly and very expensive blades made of pure iron.

“Like what?” said Sam.

“That we’re – you know - together,” Dean gestured between himself and Sam.

“You are together,” said Cas helpfully.

“Not that kind of together,” Dean glowered at Cas.

“People keep assuming we’re a couple,” Sam explained.

“That is logical,” Castiel said.

“Excuse me?” Dean demanded.

“According to the Scrolls, the warriors who will defeat Leviathan share a sacred bond, militaristic and fraternal – the interpretations certainly leave room for an erotic aspect.”

“ The – we – I – the – I’m not gay!” Dean resisted hand-flinging gestures by grasping the straps of his backpack. Castiel saying things like ‘erotic aspect’ was wrong to begin with, let alone referring to him and Sam.

“Such socio-sexual categories did not exist until millennia after the Scrolls were composed,” Cas said. “Where is the reckless service car?”

“He means the taxi,” Sam was suppressing an epic grin.

“I know what he means,” Dean snapped. “So what do we do now, just waltz on into the apartment block and stab this mother?”

“Well the paper said only a few people still live in the building,” Sam said. “I guess if we  
try now, we’ve got more chance of those being out…”

“And more chance of being busted for breaking and entering.”

“We don’t have to break and enter,” Sam rolled his eyes. “We’ll fake our way in. Say we’re like building inspectors or something. I don’t know. Plumbers.”

“Building inspectors,” Dean decreed, with a glance back at Castiel. “Can’t see him holding a wrench somehow, can you?” Then: “Good idea,” he admitted.

“Thanks,” Sam said. They hailed another taxi, and shortly pulled up outside the apartment block.

 

*

 

The basement of 239 E. 27th Street looked, Sam had to admit, like just the place for an urban goblin to take up. For one thing, it was dripping – some of the pipes in the walls and ceiling in desperate need of repair – it smelled bad, and admitted only the barest hint of daylight through one of the broken windows. They’d relied on Dean’s professional charm to get them in – past a middle-aged woman in a bathrobe who didn’t appear to care at all whether they were legitimate or not – and tramped down to the basement with Sam feeling vaguely ridiculous.

“So….” He said. “I guess we…try to find its lair?”

They set about moving boxes, crates, the remains of a bike, and other the paraphernalia that tended to end up in basements of shared buildings.

“Check this out,” said Dean abruptly. One of the stones in the far wall was loose, and the edges suggested it had been moved recently. It was waist height, and about two foot by two.

“Guys,” Sam couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner, “One problem. How do we get into the goblin’s lair? I mean, we won’t fit.”

Castiel frowned. “Why not?”

“Well, aren’t they like….” Sam made vague hand gestures: “Tiny?”

The angel gave him a withering look. “Of course not. They are human sized.”

“Oh. Well, of course. Silly us,” said Dean.

“It is a magic door,” continued Castiel, “and there is indeed a goblin here.” He placed both hands on the loose stone. Immediately it started to glow, and then the outline of a large door lit up in white light. The door creaked, and then opened inwards into a dark passageway. Sam felt his jaw drop.

“That – Cas – that’s pretty awesome,” Dean blurted. “You’re pretty awesome.”

“Hardly, nowadays.” Cas looked tired, his shoulders slumped a little. “That took far more effort from me than it ought to.” Then he straightened and gestured into the passageway.

“Proceed.”

Sam and Dean drew their iron blades and shared a look. Air between them was static again, and they moved in tandem, just as they had when they’d fought Sandover’s ghost together, and the feeling of rightness was back. Castiel seemed to sense it and looked approving. The instant they stepped into the passage, the door behind them closed, glowed and vanished. Sam gulped:

“Hey, Cas?” he said in the total darkness: “You can open that again when we’re done, right?”

“Probably,” said the angel.

In here the damp smell was more intense, and mingled with something…sweet…sour…Sam’s stomach turned as he recognized the tang of old meat. Dean took the camping torch from his backpack, turned it on full beam, and gave it to Castiel. Cas was already holding a sports bottle in which to collect the blood. “Point that ahead of us,” he instructed, when the angel simply looked at him blankly. Now they could see that that the tunnel curved left ahead, stone giving way to earth, and with every step the smell grew stronger. Suddenly the tunnels branched, leading right, left and straight ahead in narrow crooked patterns, intersecting and looping back into each other.

“I was mistaken,” said Castiel quietly: “There is not a goblin here.” Sam and Dean turned to look at him, incredulous. “There are several goblins,” he went on.

“Crap,” said Dean.

“Yes,” said Cas, then: “there must have been more disappearances than reported. Be very quiet – they are hibernating.”

Sam stopped himself from commenting, and gestured to each of the tunnels, before turning around and holding his hands out questioningly. Dean shrugged. Castiel just waited. Sam made more urgent gestures. Finally he rolled his eyes, and picked a passage at random.  
They moved in silence, deeper into the earth the metallic sweet smell getting stronger and stronger, until they turned an abrupt corner and –

\- came face to face with a goblin.

It was roughly human in size and shape, slumped in a chair made of – yeah, those were bones. Scattered around its feet were more bones, but these still had strings of flesh attached, earthworms and maggots crawling over them. The goblin was naked, pinkish-grey skin and thin knobbled limbs, but its belly was bloated with feasting, skin pulled taut. As the light beam fell on it, it cracked one eye, pale blue ring in a bloodshot eyeball, glinting not so much with intelligence as animal cunning.

For a second it held absolutely still, all four staring at each other. Then, with a shriek, it launched itself at Sam, who was closest. Sam managed to keep his blade in front of him, but the goblin’s hide was so tough that it skittered off its side and cut in somewhere below the  
hip. The goblin shrieked, but didn’t hesitate, freakishly long strong fingers of one hand wrapping around Sam’s neck whilst the other reached for – his tongue. Sam saw stars as the goblin cut off his oxygen – then it arced and screamed and collapsed, dead weight and stench overwhelming as cold blood spilled over him. With effort, Dean pulled his blade from its back, and Cas hurried to catch its blood in the sports bottle.

“You okay?” Dean asked urgently.

“Yeah,” Sam said breathlessly, but apparently looked as shaken as he felt, because Dean started patting him down almost frantically, searching for injuries.

“We must go,” said Cas, and looked up abruptly. A second later the humans heard it too: shrieking and gibbering in the distance, the groan of old earth moving. Almost as one, they turned and began to run back the direction they’d come from.

They were more than half way to the magic door – sounds of the goblins’ pursuit ever louder in their ears – when the wall broke in and the goblins came pouring in, stumbling and falling over each other, howling with rage. Dean cried out as one of them clawed down his back – Sam turned stabbed it in the chest. It cost him a moment to free his blade from the thick muscle. In that time, another one would have leapt on him, but Dean sliced through its neck, and it collapsed with its head hanging grossly and blood gurgling in its throat.

“Cas?!” Dean called – they were at the wall, and Castiel was just – standing there.

“I’m trying!” Castiel snapped, as close to yelling as he probably could be. Dean and Sam killed another goblin each, blood splattering Sam in his face this time, slick in his mouth and nose. They were strong, but they were stupid, falling all over the corpses and sliding in the blood – still one of them managed to tear a handful from Sam’s shirt and leave him a couple of scratches. Then a huge one was right in his face, jaws wide open, rancid breath stealing his air for a moment, and thought, oh crap, this is how I die, and then suddenly Cas had the door open and they were tumbling through it, the goblin on top of Sam falling after them. Dean dispatched it, and they all paused, panting.

A thump from the stairway made them all turn. The woman who had let them into building had come downstairs at the noise, taken one look at the dead goblin, and fainted.

*

They disposed of the dead goblin in the skeeviest way possible: tossing the body into a metal dumpster behind the apartment block, and setting the whole thing on fire. Cas insisted that burning was safest, and with the door resealed, no one was going to believe the witness, whatever she reported. Then they caught a taxi back to the Holiday Inn to clean themselves up before depositing the blood with Balthazar.

“Hey, you’re um, bleeding,” Sam said, indicating Dean’s back. Dean craned his neck to look but the angle was difficult, and Sam started forward instinctively to help him.

“I got it,” Dean snapped.

“Okay, sorry,” Sam held his hands up.

“You should ensure that any abrasions are thoroughly disinfected,” said Castiel. “Goblins carry many infectious diseases, ranging from the inconvenient to the fatal.”

Dean and Sam exchanged looks. “Oh for God’s sake,” snapped Sam finally, “Drop the macho bullshit for one second. I’m not trying to molest you or anything, Dean. Just trying to make sure you don’t drop dead and leave me to deal with this situation.”

Dean sighed elaborately and started to unbutton his shirt, whilst Sam went into the bathroom and filled the sink. He added disinfectant from Dean’s backpack, which, he had to admit, was turning out to be decidedly useful. Dean entered – shirtless. Sam kept his mind on the task of cleaning out the gouges on his lower back, but neither of them were small guys, and the Holiday Inn didn’t exactly come with supersize bathrooms as standard. Thus, the situation was decidedly – close. It was difficult not to notice that Dean was in better shape than your average desk jockey – he didn’t have Sam’s physique by any means, but then Sam’s (former) job was so boring and stressful that frequent workouts at maximum effort were the only thing keeping him sane for a while there. Dean’s skin was warm to touch, pale and endearingly freckled.

“Ow!” said Dean petulantly.

“Don’t be a baby,” Sam scolded. “I’m gonna cut up some sterile plaster and put strips across this one to keep it closed.”

Pause. Then, “Thanks,” Dean said.

“No problem.”

“You know, you’re -…”

“What?”

“I just wanna say….” Dean squirmed, and Sam wasn’t even touching him. The backs of his ears turned pink. “When we first met, I was kind of a dick to you.”

“You were,” Sam agreed.

“At first, it was because I thought you were nuts. And then, when I figured out you weren’t nuts, I guess part of me kind of blamed you for all the craziness. I mean ever since I met you its been…”

Dean half-turned, and Sam paused in the act of cutting the plaster.

“….different.” Dean finished.

“Different bad?” Sam felt a smile curve his lips.

“No. Different.” Dean was facing him fully now, and the space between their faces was small enough Sam could feel his breath, see the rise and fall of pulse at his throat, and his own breath caught. Dean’s lips were just slightly parted, eyes wide and extremely green in the luminous light, and Sam was beginning to lean in, not planning this, but it seemed Dean had the same idea because they were almost –

\- “The Apostle requires you,” Castiel slammed the door open, narrowly missing smacking Dean in the face with it. Sam swallowed a groan, seeing his mix of frustration and amusement mirrored in Dean’s eyes. Cock-blocked by the accountant of the Lord.

“We got to introduce you to cartoons or something,” Dean said to Castiel.

“We’ll uh – be right out Cas,” Sam coughed over a laugh. “Just got to finish this.”

“Do not take long. She is waiting in the space-time vortex.” Cas gave them a suspicious look, like a kid whose parents have just made some dubious promise about the necessity of long division to his future.

“Well uh,” Sam gestured for Dean to turn back around just as Dean was already doing so, and Dean said, “Right, I’ll just-”, and when Sam brought his hand back he knocked over the disinfectant bottle, spilling it into the sink.

“Shit,” said Sam,

“Dammit,” said Dean they both reached to stop the spill, knocking the bottle around more and making it worse. They both laughed.

“Just stick the goddam tape on,” Dean said, and Sam did so, clinically and without static.

 

*

 

“Well,” said Balthazar, eyebrows up in his hairline, “I have to say, this is more than I expected. No offense. Just assumed you’d be skewered at the first hurdle.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dean scowled and crossed his arms across his chest, feeling decidedly naked. Probably because he was, or almost so: Balthazar had commandeered the hotel’s sauna-and-pool suite for what appeared to be some kind of private party. Apparently he’d left orders that he not be disturbed, but instructed the hotel staff that Sam, Dean and Cas were permitted access to him at all times, and that anything they needed was to be charged to his account. Only swimwear was allowed in the pool suite, which was how the three of them ended up standing awkwardly around in flip flops and plain black swimming trunks with the hotel logo embroidered in white on one pocket. Sam was every bit as physically impressive as Dean had thought – no visible body fat, toned chest and arms, and the kind of washboard abs usually reserved for fitness magazines. Dean’s eyes narrowed, caught between envy and flat-out arousal.

Yeah, he thought it. Apparently his internal monologue was sick of the euphemizing. Dean Smith wanted Sam Wesson. In the bathroom, when they’d come so close, he had wanted to press his mouth against Sam’s, taste the line of his lips, trail his tongue down the skin of his throat to the hollow of his collarbone. He wanted to know what those muscles felt like, and more, what --- okay he wasn’t quite ready to visualize any more. Partly because if he did he was going to pop a giant boner right here on the poolside, and have to explain it to Castiel. And it was more than that. Sam was nice, and smart, and brave, and resourceful. Thinking about the future seemed vaguely absurd when you looked at the goddamn present, but the idea that he and Sam would just to this thing and go their separate ways, never see each other again…the thought left a hollow pit somewhere under his ribcage.

Castiel’s vessel was pale-skinned and slender, with pointy knees and elbows. Undressing had left his dark hair sticking up in every direction, but he didn’t seem to notice. He marched directly to where Balthazar was relaxing in a jacuzzi. He was surrounded by beautiful young people, all drinking a lot and wearing very little. More of the same sort frolicked in the pool and wandered in and of the door to the sauna. Balthazar and Castiel held some kind of silent conversation, then Balthazar briefly inspected the bottle and gave it to one of his hangers-on.

“Take that up to the suite, would you, love, top drawer of the bureau.”

“Is that safe?” Sam frowned as the young man departed.

“Quite,” Balthazar said. “Believe me, these pretty things are quite trustworthy.” There was an edge in his voice, something steely, suggesting compliance more on the lines of ‘they wouldn’t dare’ than ‘they love me’. “So….” His eyes wandered from Sam to Dean, taking his time. “One of you actually killed a goblin.”

“Several, actually,” Dean bit off.

Balthazar raised an eyebrow. If he wasn’t using his vessel’s arms to anchor himself on the ceramic rim, Dean thought he might have started a slow clap. “Well then. This calls for a celebration.” He made a gesture with his head and the two men and three women he was sharing the pool with sighed and got out. “Join me.”

Dean spluttered. “Fuck no!”

“Please mind your language in front of my little brother,” Balthazar frowned.

“I am aware of the Anglo-Saxon vulgarity, ‘to fuck’, probably from the Germanic root ‘fukk-‘

“Well I don’t want you saying it,” Balthazar snapped, sounding so much like Dean’s mom reprimanding his sister he almost chuckled. “Now get in.”

Obediently, Cas climbed down the steps and got into the jacuzzi. He sat very stiffly for a moment on the ceramic rim, then blinked, and started to relax.

“This is….most pleasant,” Cas said in surprise.

“That’s the spirit!” said Balthazar. “Boys? Going once?”

“What the hell,” Sam shrugged, “It’s not every day I get a free jacuzzi.” He stepped down and into the water, then grinned. “Wow, Dean, this is awesome. Seriously. You have to try it.”  
Dean stood on the side for a long moment, scowling. But the bubbles did look good, and the heat waves rising from the jacuzzi were more than a little inviting. He was still full of aches from their fight with the goblin, and the plaster from his first aid kit was 100% waterproof. There really wasn’t a good reason not to. Which was how Dean Smith, Head of Sales and Marketing at Sandover Bridge and Iron, found himself sharing a whirlpool at the Trump with a couple of crazy angels and the former tech support guy he’d just realized he like-liked, planning the best way to get blood out of a demon.

“They’re not like goblins,” warned Balthazar. “They’re smart. They can be strategic.”

“Okay, first things first,” Dean said, “How do we find one?”

“Omens,” said Castiel. “Freak weather patterns, for instance.”

“Also murders with no motive, random bouts of insane good fortune and/or violent death, reports of black eyes, all the usual good observation that gets respectable citizens sent to the nuthouse.” Balthazar handed his empty glass to a girl in a bikini that was just short of violating public decency law. She was exactly Dean’s type: i.e., female and hot, and looking at him in a way that quite clearly displayed her interest. He grinned – force of habit – yet unsettlingly, had little to no reaction. ‘Well?!’ he demanded of his dick, ‘Hello down there?’ Barely a twitch of interest. Christ, he was getting old. ‘Or just sprung’, whispered a voice in the back of his mind.

“…think Dean?”

“What – sorry?” Dean realized he had tuned out.

“I said,” Sam frowned, “That I don’t think it’s fair for you to drive all the way to Las Vegas, so if you absolutely won’t fly and you’re not going to let me drive your car, I think we should rent one.”

“Why – um – Las Vegas?”

“Because that’s where the most demon deals go down? Really, try to keep up,” Balthazar sighed.

“I took the liberty of a little research whilst were you gone. Preston!” One of the hangers-on, an excessively tanned young man with big blue eyes and a pretty face, popped comically out of the swimming pool and stood to attention. “Sweetheart, go grab me today’s Times from the foyer. That’s a dear.”

“Sure thing Sebastian!” said Preston, breathless with excitement at the direct address, and ran for a fluffy robe hanging from a wall of them, slipping on the wet tiles.

“Sebastian?” said Dean, “Really? You couldn’t have picked something less…” the word was ‘douchey’, but he figured it was a bad idea to deliberately piss off the unimaginably ancient and powerful warrior, even if said warrior was currently undercover as a pimp with an attitude problem.

“I like it,” sniffed Balthazar. “It’s refined. If you prefer, you can call me Your Excellency; Grand Potentate; Keeper of the most sacred relics of the Ancients; or Bob.”

“How is this guy related to you?” Dean asked Castiel.

“My brother has…spent much more time on Earth than I,” said Castiel, “and is also considerably older. His experience is greater and more varied than mine.”

“I bet it is,” Dean muttered.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you Dean,” tutted Balthazar.

“Well if you’re so awesome and powerful, why can’t you just zap us directly to Vegas?”

Castiel looked stricken. Balthazar’s mouth tightened. For an instant, the air was electric, the hot water seemed to freeze, and the shadow of something terrible, immense, flitted up the walls around them. It was over as soon as it happened – the hangers-on shifted uneasily, some glancing to Balthazar, others looking away or down at their feet. Then Balthazar smiled.

“I could,” he said lightly, “But my precision isn’t what it used to be. It would be strictly an at-your-own-risk policy, and I couldn’t guarantee you arriving exactly…intact.”

Dean gulped. “Okay so scratch that idea.” He considered. He had either to leave his car in NYC, or drive all the way to Las Vegas, or….” You can drive my car,” he said to Sam.

“Really?” Sam looked delighted.

“Some of the time,” Dean sighed. “Just – don’t scratch it. And the steering’s really sensitive, okay, you don’t need to yank it around like some shitty…Peugot.”

“Peugot?” Sam laughed. “They still make those?”

Castiel looked approving: “It is good that you trust each other in all things,” he intoned.  
Dean met Sam’s eyes, bright with happiness, and he couldn’t help thinking for a second that it really, really would be.

“Okay, so say we’ve found a demon. What do we do with it?”

“Trap it,” said Cas. Balthazar nodded approvingly:

“Buggers can’t be killed, so far as we know, but under normal circumstances you can send them back to the Pit they came from. That won’t do you much good, however, until you’ve gotten the blood. So you trap one. Draw a devil’s trap on the floor or ceiling, tempt it inside, and it can’t move. Then you cut it.”

“But-” Sam frowned. “Wouldn’t we have to get in the trap with it to get the blood? That sounds kind of suicidal.”

“Ugh, must I do everything?” Balthazar leaned his head back, stretching out his neck. “I need a massage. Look, you’ve proven you’re not total imbeciles. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He paused. “Now you two get out. I want quality time with my little brother. Go play spin the bottle with Preston or something, the sexual repression in here is giving me muscle spasms.”


	4. Chapter 4

They got onto the interstate and started through Pennsylvania. Pretty soon the I80 was backed up to hell, and Cas was becoming increasingly irritable with being stuck in traffic.

“They can’t go, because there are more cars in front of those cars,” Dean explained for the millionth time, visibly resisting the urge to bang his head on the steering wheel.

“But why do not those cars go?”

“Because there are more cars in front of those cars,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

“But why-"

“How about we turn off?” Sam interrupted, perceiving the infinite regress this conversation was heading for. “Take some backroads, see a little of scenic America?”

“No,” Dean snapped. “We’ll get lost.”

“I will not let us get lost,” Castiel said firmly. “I wish to leave the Interstate. I do not understand its purpose, as it seems impossible to progress along it.”

“You can navigate?” Sam turned around in his seat and addressed Castiel.

“My sense of direction is infinitely superior to that of a human,” said the angel, so at the next turn-off, they abandoned I80 for grassy fields and small picturesque townships. Sam was pleased, and entertained by looking out the windows – he’d rarely been out of an urban  
environment, and never this deep into farm country.

“Pretty,” he said.

“I guess. If you like fields,” Dean said.

“How about if we stop for a while?” said Sam, as another mom-and-pop diner appeared on the roadside, “And then I’ll drive.” Dean agreed and pulled over, and as they got out of the car Castiel informed them that he wished to experience driving.

“No,” said Sam and Dean in unison. Castiel glared:

“If I am to be stuck here indefinitely, without flight, it is only prudent that I learn to operate one of these vehicles.”

“Well – that’s true,” said Dean. “But you can’t just get in and go, okay? For one thing you need a permit. And some quiet road. When this is over –” he stopped himself from saying ‘if you’re good’, “ – I’ll, uh, I’ll teach you to drive, okay?”

“That would be satisfactory,” said Castiel.

“I would really, really like to see that,” Sam grinned.

“Shut your face,” said Dean.

They headed into the diner, attracting more than a few raised eyebrows from the local clientele. Cas’s trenchcoat and Dean’s shirt and slacks stood out particularly. Dean scowled at everyone, and ordered the largest black coffee on the menu, eggs and bacon. Cas was eyeing at the ice cream counter with interest, so they got him two scoops, warning him to eat it slowly this time.

“Should we be letting him live off ice cream?” Sam wondered aloud. “Maybe he needs vegetables or something.”

“Cas, do you need vegetables?” Dean asked.

“No,” said Cas.

Dean shrugged and spread his hands in a what-are-you-gonna-do gesture.

Sam got orange juice and pancakes, which Dean informed him was essentially pure sugar, and would kill him faster than any amount of eggs.

“You worry about this stuff a lot,” Sam said.

“We don’t all have the metabolism of a god,” Dean glared. “I don’t want to wake up someday when I’m fifty and realize I’m a fat dude, okay?”

“You guys road-tripping?” asked the waitress when she’d jotted down their order.

“You could say that,” Sam grinned.

“Well you be sure to check out the Dream Garden at Washington Square. It’s a mosaic made of a hundred thousand pieces of glass!”

“So demons,” Dean said as soon as she was out of earshot.

“You can’t kill them,” insisted Castiel.

“Can you?” Sam asked curiously, then regretted it when Castiel looked down. “Never mind, sorry,” he apologized quickly. “So the trick is, how do we get close enough to cut one?”

“I guess one of us could pretend to want a deal,” Dean said.

“And then what, the other two spring out and cut him? It sounds like an episode of Law and Order.”

“You got a better idea?”

Sam didn’t, actually. “Okay then,” he shrugged, “Jail here we come.” Dean was made a shushing gesture, and Sam turned around just in time to see the waitress pause, holding their drinks. Goddamit, you really had to watch your mouth in this business.

“Heh heh heh he’s – kidding,” Dean said loudly. “Sammy’s always – kidding around.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam smiled weakly. “Just uh, kidding.”

“We’re not going to jail,” said Dean. “I mean we’re not doing anything illegal. I mean if we were we wouldn’t exactly be talking about it in the middle of a diner, right? Cos that’s just - nutty.”

“Right,” said the waitress slowly, setting their drinks down. “I’ll be right back with your food.” She went back behind the counter and said something to the till guy, and they both glanced at the threesome warily.

“Do we leave?” Sam asked nervously.

“No, that will look worse!”

“We have not yet partaken of our repast,” Cas pointed out.

“Okay just – be cool. Everybody be cool,” Dean said. “Talk about the weather.”

They all paused.

“Sunny but cold,” Sam offered.

“Thirty four degrees farenheit externally,” Cas offered. “Which is not excessive for November  
in this region. In here, however, it is a human-comfortable 70 degrees.”

“Thanks for that,” said Dean.

“You are welcome.”

The waitress returned and set their plates down, minus the friendly banter.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked Castiel, who was pushing his ice cream around his dish.

“Our mission is urgent,” said Castiel.

“Yes…?”

“But I…”

Sam raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

“I wish to visit the garden composed of glass. Moreover, we will shortly be passing through Colorado, and I desire to see the elk.”

“Elk?”

“The elk that live on the mountain,” Cas insisted. “They are a majestic expression of my Father’s grace.”

“Rocky Mountain wildlife park!” Sam exclaimed. “You know, I always wanted to go there too.”

“I thought that to be exiled from heaven would be the worst fate that could befall an angel,” Cas turned thoughtful eyes to the window, looking at something they couldn’t see, suddenly more infinite than childlike. “But here on Earth, I find there are many things I desire to experience. Earth is – beautiful.”

“Huh,” said Dean. “Well, I guess some things….”

“I do not know when I will pass this way again,” Cas turned his haunting eyes on Dean. “And I would be sorry to miss these unique manifestations of divinity.”

Pause.

“Well I’ll tell you what Cas,” Dean said slowly: “We gank Dick Roman, Sam’s out of a job, I’m probably out of a job, and if not I’ll – I’ll take a vacation.” He shot Sam a shut-up look.  
“We’ll come back and see the glass garden. And the Rocky Mountains. Hell, we’ll go wherever you want.”

“Including the largest teapot in the world?”

“Um. Sure. Why not?” Dean and Sam shared a look.

“It’s a thing,” Sam affirmed. “It’s in West Virginia.”

“How do you even know that?”

“I’ve worked a few tech jobs. Leaves way too much time for surfing the net, reading Cracked and stuff.”

“Huh.” Dean’s instinctive reaction was to reprimand, ‘we don’t pay you to type stupid stuff into search engines’, but he figured it wasn’t exactly his place to boss Sam around anymore. Cas looked satisfied, so they finished their food, left a disproportionate tip in cash and headed back to the car.

They stopped overnight at a roadside motel in Iowa. Dean had never been in such a place: a small courtyard of squat white buildings that had evidently seen better days, the last two boarded up and one of the lights flickering in the vacancy in sign.

“I gotta go run,” Sam said as soon as they dumped their stuff. “Can’t take any more sitting down.

“I don’t think this place has a gym,” Dean said doubtfully.

“Run outside,” Sam rolled his eyes. “You can do that, you know.”

“What? But – it’s dark! It’s freezing!” And running on hard stuff hurt! Was Sam some kind of closet masochist? Dean figured that was something he should know, if it was the case.

“Aaand you get warm running,” Sam said and grabbed a light-colored t-shirt from his backpack. A t-shirt!

“Just – don’t – get run over,” Dean said. “We need you.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Sam grinned and headed out of the motel room. Dean sat down, shaking his head.

“It is good,” Castiel said.

“What?” Dean sensed that Cas was about to make him uncomfortable.

“It is good that your bond with Sam grows strong. That is according to the Scrolls.”

“Scrolls. That is so crazy,” Dean blew his breath out and got a bottle of water out of his backpack. “Hey – Cas…these Scrolls, they say we defeat Leviathan, right? Do they happen to mention what happens afterwards? No dying of mortal wounds inflicted in battle, right?”

“Not as far as I understand them.”

“Okay. Well, that’s – good. How about rewards?” His mind briefly flashed the medal scene at the end of Star Wars IV. “After parties with hot babes?”

Cas cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Dean. “What use have you now for mindless fornication? You are warrior-bonded.”

Dean nearly spit out his water on ‘fornication’, but managed to swallow without choking. He stared at the angel.

“Sam is your soul mate,” Cas said slowly, like Dean was being deliberately dense. “He is all that you require for the fulfillment of body and mind. Incidentally, when are you planning to consummate your bond in the physical manner? It would be best if that were accomplished before the fight with Roman.”

Dean stared. And there- something that was almost, almost a smirk curled the corner of Cas’s mouth, and his eyes glinted.

“I have been an observer of humanity for a very long time, Dean,” Cas said gently. “I lack much in the way of experience, it is true, but there are few human practices of which of I am thoroughly ignorant.” And when he put it that way, it was sort of ridiculous to imagine he didn’t know what sex was. It was just – jeez – Cas was innocent. This was like discovering a kid you were minding knew that the machines in public bathrooms didn’t dispense candy.

“So hang on,” Dean closed his eyes, struggling to adjust his conception of Cas and still take in this information. “Are you saying Heaven wants me and Sam to get it on?”

“Not particularly,” Cas reminded him: “Heaven is in anarchy. I am telling you, however, that the Scrolls are clear concerning the warrior bond, and the apostle assures me it would be best for you to go into battle fully committed to each other. She made a convincing argument, by reference to the sacred warriors of Thebes.”

Oh. So not only was Cas well aware of their latent sexual attraction, he’d been discussing it with that Becky chick. Wow.

“The Apostle is a fund of information, should you require any advice in initiating the proceedings,” Cas offered.

Dean considered. His first impressions of Becky had been that she was – excitable. Kind of hyper, and a little too free with the voyeurism (though Dean supposed he didn’t have too much room to talk on that front), but she seemed to know what she was talking about when it came to this Scroll stuff, and she’d known Sam a lot longer than he had.

“You know, I think I will talk to her,” he said to Cas. “I should probably fill her in on what’s been going on, in any case.” He unfolded his Apple Mac. Cas continued to stand and watch him. “Uh -… you mind?”

“Not at all, it was my suggestion.”

“I mean would you mind…giving me some privacy?”

“Oh. No, I would not.” Cas went into the bathroom and closed the door. Hm. Well, Dean supposed it was better than going downstairs and freaking the staff out with his brand of conversation, but he couldn’t help wonder what Cas was doing in there. Presumably if he ate, and could puke...okay end that thought. There were certain things Dean was prepared to help out with, but there were also lines.

“Hi Becky,” he said when she’d logged on: “Hey, where are you?” The background was different – a few battered chairs and a small table, some lockers.

“The break room at the public library,” Becky told him. “I work here Monday through Wednesday. Don’t worry though – I keep my phone on vibrate in case you need me. Oh my gosh, you won’t believe this. The Leviathan are in town!” Now that Dean took a good look, Becky appeared freaked. Still inappropriately excited, but freaked. “Sandover’s started to buy out everything. Even the little shops. So the other day, I was at the Jenkins’, you know they run that antique store and one time I found the most adorable embroidered cushion covers, but anyway, I went in and I could hear someone pressuring the old guy about selling, in the back room, and it sounded really suspicious. So I looked through the keyhole and oh my God, Dean, there was this suit guy, and Mr. Jenkins wouldn’t sell the store, and the suit guy was a Leviathan and he ate him!” Becky’s voice had been rising by degrees, and she made a visible effort to reign it in.

“Yikes,” Dean blew his breath out, flashbacks of his own witness experience before his eyes.

“Becky that’s – that’s horrible.”

“I know. I wanted to do something but…”

“Well hey, don’t go getting yourself killed. You’re important, remember?”

“Right,” Becky blew her breath out. “So anyway, how’s the mission going?” Dean quickly brought her up to speed. By a few cautious questions, he’d managed to get the full scoop on demon deals without making it obvious he hadn’t been listening to Balthazar: basically, they found losers, offered whatever they wanted for ten years, then collected said loser’s soul for the fiery pit. Becky found it all very tragic. All the time Dean was wondering how he could delicately broach what he really wanted to talk about. He didn’t have to: “And you and Sam?” Becky paused in her note taking to looking directly into the camera. “Have you consummated your bond yet?”

“Aw – jeez – don’t say consummated okay, Becky? It sounds like we’re getting married.”

“Made tender profound love?” Becky offered. “Merged one soul in two bodies? Explored the heights of your heavenly passion?”

“Okay, you can say consummated,” Dean conceded. “And no, we haven’t.”

Becky’s face fell.

“Actually I was wondering…” Dean hedged. “You’ve known Sam a while, right?”

“Since he moved here.”

“So you got any ideas how I could…you know…”

“Initiate sex,” Becky nodded seriously. “Don’t worry. I’m an expert on first times. It’s basically my favorite genre.”

“Gen – what? Never mind. So, what do you think I should do?”

“What’s happened so far?”

“A lot of flirting. And, uh, I think we almost kissed. It was after the goblins…”

Becky wriggled. “And you were all full of danger and adrenalin! And wounded. But not mortally,” she amended quickly. “You were patching each other up, right?”

Dean gaped and looked around for hidden cameras.

“I told you I knew about first times,” said Becky smugly. “Now, what needs to happen is that one of you does something totally heroic.”

“Well, we are trying to save the world here…”

“Right. But I mean save the other’s life. Directly. Like, swoop in and protect him from  
danger. Or vice versa. Probably vice versa, I kind of see Sam as a top, don’t you?”

Dean blushed, seeing Sam as a top very vividly in his imagination. Which made the guy on the bottom – him. Um. Oh God. Becky giggled.

“But – hold up,” Dean said. “You’re suggesting I should deliberately put myself in immediate mortal danger?”

“Or you could talk,” Becky shrugged. “You know, confession scene. Tell him how you used to drown your feelings in cheap women and booze, but ever since you laid eyes on him, you felt something real and complete. You can be kind of drunk, but not totally wasted, otherwise some people will be jerks and flame you for not warning for dub-con, which is stupid because hello, you totally want it.”

“Uh. Thanks.” Dean closed his eyes. Evidently this hadn’t been such a great idea.

“Good luck! Tell me how it goes! Oh, it will be wonderful. Dean. You’re soul mates.” She sighed. “You know, I can’t even be jealous of you. Not really. Sure, Sam is gorgeous, and smart, and perfect, and we have serious chemistry –“ Dean hoped he wasn’t making a skeptical face “ – But the two of you are…” She clasped her hands together. “You’re meant to be.”

“Okay. See you Becky.”

“Tell Cas hi for me. And look after him, he’s adorable.”

“You know he’s a warrior older than humanity, right?”

“I know. But his blue eyes and those little frowns he does when doesn’t understand something are just too, too precious.”

Dean wouldn’t have put it like that, but he had to admit he kind of knew what she meant. They signed off, Cas came out of the bathroom, and Dean tried to distract himself with the stock market daily reports.

*

 

The Nevada state line was marked by a sign depicting some kind of miner, squatting against a backdrop of black mountains and sunset. The highway was pretty deserted, desert shrub to either side snow-topped mountains falling away into the distance. If Iowa and Ohio were picturesque, Nevada was sparse and commanding. The temperature had increased dramatically, to the point they no longer needed the heating, and Sam felt - kind of good. If these were his last days before painful, humiliating death, roadtripping across the US with Dean Smith and a renegade angel hadn’t been the worst way to spend them.

Las Vegas loomed abruptly: the first signs appeared on the desert highway, then suddenly they were surrounded by gaudy frescos and deliberately OTT displays. Sam imagined that from an aerial view, the gambling city would appear to be dropped between the mountains by an aesthetically challenged spacecraft. It was the middle of the day, but the streets were still thronging: cafes and bars, restaurants and casinos all open and doing a brisk trade. Sam thought the tourists would be mostly college kids and maybe some middle-aged businessmen; and those were out in force, but there were also families with small children, senior tour groups, and people of every age in between. It seemed the whole world came to Las Vegas. Dean’s eyes were shining.

“Dude,” he said. “We have got to hit up some of the casinos while we’re in town. And the bars, Sammy! Mmm, showgirls…” a dreamy expression crossed his face, and Sam was briefly afraid for his steering. He also felt a hot flash of jealousy, as he secretly considered his legs to be one of his best features.

“We must not become distracted,” Castiel said. “Our mission is to find a demon, and to do so we must bait one.”

“I think you should do it, Cas,” Dean said. “Then when the demon approaches you, me and Sam will jump out and…” he made vague slashing motions, then over-corrected the wheel and narrowly missed a jaywalking pedestrian. “Shit! Watch where you’re going.”

“I see where you’re coming from….” Sam eyed Castiel. With his trenchcoat and his messy hair, he could probably pass for a down-on-his-luck 30-something male, newly single and seeking to smother his sorrows in gambling. Stubble would help, but the angel didn’t appear to grow any.

“Cas, you think you could handle that? You know….acting?”

“I am acting at this moment,” said Cas loftily. “I am acting as though I am human.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. “Maybe I should do it,” Dean offered.

“No,” said Cas. “It is right that you and Sam remain united and assault the demon together. I will act, as you put it, as bait.” He bowed his head, decided.

They parked in the garage of one of the cheaper hotels with casino, and maxed out Dean’s credit card on a room. It basically looked like a tower block, but with more lights. The room was faux-luxury, reds and golds but with poor materials, and they wasted no time in peeling back the carpet and drawing the devil’s trap design on the linoleum floor.

“Okay here’s the plan,” said Dean, feeling more in his stride: “We go down, Cas baits a demon. Demon offers deal, Cas says he needs to think it over and invites the demon up to the room.” He paused, hearing what he’d said: “Hey Cas – don’t get the wrong end of the stick with this. Make sure it really is a demon, okay?”

Cas cocked his head. “What else would it be?”

Dean paused: “Never mind.”

They headed down to the casino.

The excess of light, noise and color was startling, even compared to the rest of the building: a garish red carpet, a long bar, over-decorated walls and rows and rows of pinging, jingling machines well occupied despite the hour.

“Twenty-one?” Sam asked dryly, indicating a hysterical group of kids clustered round one machine, definitely high school and possibly just plain high.

“Hey,” Dean said, apparently having a brainwave. “Let’s get Cas drunk first.”

“Uh, have you lost your mind?” Sam gaped at him.

“I don’t mean passing-out drunk,” Dean dismissed. “He probably can’t even get totally wasted. I mean just enough for the red-eyed, off-kilter look.”

“Demons do recognize intoxication as a human weak point,” Cas acknowledged. “They often make deals outside licensed establishments.”

Dean grinned at Sam triumphantly, and Sam held up his hands.

“If he pukes again, it’s on you. Literally, if it comes to that.”

“Deal,” Dean said, then winced. “Poor choice of words.”

Sam thought if Cas could get drunk he would get drunk quickly, seeing as this was his first time with booze and all. That didn’t happen. The angel downed the shot they set in front of him, then a second, then a third. Sam and Dean stared at him.

“Well?” Sam asked.

Cas narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “There is a feeling.”

Dean snorted.

“What kind of feeling?” Sam asked.

“I feel….warmth. Towards you,” Cas sounded surprised. “And you,” he added to Dean.

“Aw man, he’s an affectionate drunk,” Dean said, and two shots later Cas was leaning against him, confessing,

“I have been…most lonely. Since I was exi..ex…cast out. With you I am less lonely. And Balthazar. But my brother confuses me. Is that wrong? We should be as one, should we not? But he is…..confusing.”

“He sure is, buddy,” Dean patted Cas’s back. “Now no angel talk while we bait this demon, remember?”

“Yes,” said Cas determinedly. “I remember.”

“Good. Let’s set you up at a machine.”

They got Cas at a slot machine in a relatively quiet corner, and Dean showed him how to use it. Cas seemed much enamored of the game, quickly going through the roll of quarters Sam had brought him.

“Woah – buddy – slow down,” Dean said. “Are you even reading the screen?”

“I can read faster than you,” said Cas.

“Yeah, no doubt,” said Sam, “But we don’t want anyone else to know that, remember? Acting?”

“Yes. Acting,” said Cas somberly, and made a visible effort to slow down. Dean turned on the speakerphone on his Blackberry, dialed Sam’s mobile, then slipped it into a pocket of the angel’s trenchcoat. Then Sam and Dean slipped back and tried to be inconspicuous. They grabbed a table on the edge of the bar area, got some chips and dip, and Sam placed his mobile on the table between them.

An hour and a half later, nothing had happened except for Cas losing several rolls of coins and Dean and Sam losing patience, and were just considering changing venue when a short man in a good suit sidled up to Cas. Sam and Dean exchanged a look. There was something about the man – he wasn’t handsome, traditionally, but oozed with charisma and his eyes held a glint of predatory intelligence. His formal wear stood out among the bright shirts and khaki trousers

“Afternoon, squire,” a slick Cockney accent came through the phone.

“It is indeed,” Cas replied, “By your time.”

“Ah, you’re from out of town?”

“I am from far. Far out of town,” They saw Cas gesture expansively in time with this  
statement, and Sam winced, starting to regret the drunk angel plan.

“Can’t say I’m local myself,” said the newcomer. “Name’s Crowley.”

“I am – Cas. They call me Cas.”

“Heh heh heh,” Crowley chuckled. “Like the friendly ghost, eh? Bit early to be hitting the scotch and slots, Cas my friend. Win much?”

“No,” said Cas sadly. “I have indeed had less luck than the laws of averages would suggest by now.”

“House always wins, friend,” Crowley sympathized. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“You know, men that drink spirits alone in the afternoon typically have problems,” Crowley changed tack.

“Yes. I have many problems. I wish there were some means to solve my problems at hand.” Cas nodded, one to many times. Sam winced. Crowley hesitated, but apparently decided his mark was just drunk.

“Hence the gambling?” he hazarded.

“Yes. Hence.”

“So what’s up?” Crowley leaned against the machine, all the time in the world.

“I have been…exiled,” Cas sighed. “From my home. I have little chance of seeing my family again.”

“Ah, missus kicked you out, withholding kids and all? Bet she’s taking you for every penny as well.”

Pause.

“Yes,” Cas said, clearly having no clue whatsoever what Crowley was talking about.

“What happened?”

“I – have made mistakes. Errors in judgment.”

“Blonde ones with tight little buttocks?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. Crowley’s abrupt swing between suave and crude was jarring to say  
the least. Cas suddenly seemed to get it:

“Yes! I am a man who has committed infidelity, which I now regret. I would I had a chance to erase my mistakes, for my life is now abject and desolate.”

“Huh, well you don’t sugar coat it.”

“I have nothing,” Cas elaborated, sounding drunk again.

“Well you know….” Crowley laced his fingers and stretched his arms out in front of him, theatrical: “There are ways.”

“Ways?”

“To erase the past. Or at least – erase memories of the past. What would you say if I told you I knew a way I could give you your family back? Make your wife just – forget this whole….misdemeanor.”

“That is unlikely.” Sam gave a silent cheer for Cas playing his part.

“I’m an unlikely man,” Crowley shrugged.

“And how would you accomplish this deed, exactly?” Cas asked sceptically.

The smile was audible in Crowley’s voice: “A little dazzle, a little deceit, a little blatantly unholy harnessing of the forces of the underworld…tell me sir, how do you feel about black magic?”

“I – need time to consider this information.” Cas said tightly.

“Reasonable – but unfortunate. You’ll understand I’m a busy man. Schedule to keep. Plenty of folk rounds these parts in need of my….special services.”

There was a long beat of silence, and it seemed alarmingly like Cas had forgotten what he was doing. Then he rallied:

“Give me but an hour.”

“I shouldn’t really. But…seeing as I’m such an exceptional mood.”

“I shall be in my room. It is 509.”

“I’ll attend you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I spy a middle-aged virgin who just lost her last dollar at the roulette table.”

Crowley slinked away.

“What a douchebag,” said Dean. Sam agreed:

“I’m gonna enjoy cutting him.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sam and Dean reunited with Cas and retreated to the room, spending the hour eating sandwiches and futilely discussing how they might collect Crowley’s blood without entering the devil’s trap drawn under the carpet. Throwing sharp things until they hit something that spurted was unfortunately the best they could come up with. They gave Cas a black coffee, which made him twitchy, but sobered him up a bit.

“Nice job by the way,” Dean had to compliment: “Keep it up till he’s inside the circle.”

“We should hide,” Sam said, looking around the room. “Dean, could you get in the closet?”

“Shut up,” Dean glared and felt himself turn red. Sam blinked, all innocent:

“Well you are shorter than me, and only one of us can really stand behind the door.”

Crowley knocked exactly on time and Cas opened the door. He strode directly for the centre of the room like a man used to commanding the stage – and directly into the devil’s trap.

“What the frak,” said Crowley pleasantly, apparently coming up against a solid wall.

“Surprise, motherfucker.” Dean came out of the closet. Yeah, yeah, hilarious.

“We know what you are,” said Sam equally pleasantly, and Sam spun around to face him. Crowley narrowed his eyes at Castiel:

“You set me up.”

“Yes.”

“Hunters,” Crowley sneered. “Funny, you don’t smell like it.”

“I do not hunt,” said Castiel. “I am an angel of the Lord. This is Dean Smith and Sam Wesson. They are legendary warriors.”

Crowley snorted: “Angel. Hardly. You’d have burned me eyes out of me skull the minute I walked in.”

Castiel just stared at him in that way he had. Crowley shrank a little.

“Alright enough small talk,” Dean decreed. He took a penknife out his pocket and threw it at Crowley.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?” Crowley dodged, coming up against the wall of his prison. “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR TINY MIND?”

“Look,” Sam reasoned. “We’ve got him trapped. We could just refuse to let him out until he gives it to us.”

“Not likely,” Crowley snorted: “I have some standards.”

“Your blood,” said Sam, rolling his eyes.

“Let me think,” said Crowley: “No. Now what’s with this legendary warrior business? You two? I’ve seen likelier prospects down the alley of a whorehouse.”

Dean looked at Sam. Cleary Crowley wasn’t a savage, or irrational. Was it possible they could reason with him?

“What do you know about Leviathan?” Sam asked slowly, and the demon’s face darkened.

“What do you?” he snapped.

“He asked first,” Dean said.

“How mature. My faith in your prospects grows exponentially.”

“Plus, you’re the one in the magic circle. If I were you, I’d start playing ball.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Leviathan,” he bit off, “Is a filthy, bottom-feeding sea snake whose lack of refinement is marched only by the size of its ego. It is a greedy, tasteless, crass abomination with an unfortunate penchant for EATING EVERYTHING in a ten mile radius. The only thing that would please me more than ripping all of your guts out is fileting Leviathan on a chopping board and selling it at markup to a Japanese restaurant. Satisfied?”

“According to the Scrolls,” Castiel said thoughtfully, “Leviathan would devour the Earth if left unchecked. Am I to assume that includes every demon on Earth?” His eyes narrowed on Crowley. Crowley swallowed:

“Well, what’s it to you? Dunno why you’re gloating, Blue Eyes, ain’t like a defrocked angel would get left out of the general banquet.”

“We can stop Leviathan,” Dean said.

“But we need your blood,” said Sam. “We already have the bloods of a fallen angel and a monster.”

“Bollocks.”

“We do!” Dean was annoyed.

“Yeah? Where are they? Up your arseholes in tiny balloons?”

“At the Trumpington New York,” said Dean resignedly. “Another British douchebag is guarding them for us. You two would be like peas in a pod.”

“Are you telling me,” said Crowley to Castiel, “That this arrogant little thug is a warrior of the Heavenly Scrolls?”

“Sam and Dean will defeat Leviathan,” Cas said firmly. “They have passed every trial on their journey so far.”

“What guarantee do I have?”

“None,” said Sam. “But you can give us a vial of your blood, or we can leave you in there.”

“Or I could give you the blood and you bugger off anyway,” Crowley countered.

“Or – he could help,” it occurred to Sam. He snapped his fingers. “Balthazar said that demons can’t be killed. We’re going to need muscle to get us past Roman’s security. You got any influence with your kind, Crowley?”

“You’re actually serious. You believe you can waltz in and kill Leviathan, a monster so ancient and terrible your peanut-sized primate brains couldn’t start to fathom its multitudes-“

“-Cut off the head, and the body will flounder,” Castiel seemed to be quoting. “The head of Leviathan takes the form of a business magnate named Dick Roman. If we kill him, the hordes will collapse and wither away.”

Crowley paused. Dean got the impression that speechlessness was a rare experience for him.  
“It’s crazy,” he said with narrowed eyes, “But if it fails…well, you and a few demons die horribly, and I bail.” He shrugged. “Seems like a good gamble.”

“Provide your blood,” said Castiel.

“Provide a vial,” said Crowley.

Dean sighed and tossed him a plastic sports bottle, which Crowley caught, then held between two fingers disdainfully. He sighed, drew a flick-knife from his suit pocket, and made a thin incision in his left forearm, allowing himself to bleed into the bottle for a few moments before tying off the cut with a handkerchief.

“Now let me out,” he said.

They all met each other’s eyes.

“If we let him out he could kill us,” Sam said.

“And then I’d have stained an excellent suit for nothing. Please. Gentlemen. Trust works both ways.”

“One false move…” Dean threatened vaguely, and Crowley sneered at him. Dean lifted the carpet, quickly broke the line of the trap with his shoe and stepped back.

“There now,” said Crowley calmly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“We must return this blood to my brother,” said Castiel. “You, summon your legions. Be ready to meet us at Roman Headquarters in…Dean, how many hours will it take us in the vehicle?”

Dean did some quick calculations. Roman’s HQ was in Charlotte, North Carolina, day’s drive from NY.

“Give us five days,” he said. “We do have to eat and sleep.”

“There’s a Hilton and a Marriot in Charlotte,” Crowley mused. “Preference?”

‘Ooh, Hilton’, Dean thought, then remembered with gritted teeth that they’d maxed out his card and would be sleeping in his car whatever. “You pick.”

“Marriott,” Crowley decreed. “The manager’s one of mine and will get us the function room.”

“Oh,” said Sam. “Uh, good?”

“I can tell our time together will be intellectually scintillating,” Crowley deadpanned. “Good riddance.” He clicked his fingers and vanished. Cas shuddered and looked troubled.

“The skin of my vessel is rising in tiny patterns,” he told them, “And I feel inexplicably cold.”

“It’s called goosebumps,” Sam explained to him: “Psycho-somatic reaction from doing something you have a bad feeling about.”

“Like buddying up with a demon,” said Dean.

“Most disconcerting,” said Cas.

“Well, we aren’t driving any further till tomorrow,” Dean decreed, “And this room’s paid up for the night. What do you say we hit the roulette table, see if we can’t win dinner and breakfast?”

“I believe one can only gamble for money here,” said Cas. “Though I must admit there is something quite pleasurable about the process.”

“Cas already lost me fifty bucks,” Sam objected, “And I don’t have a job anymore.”

“All the more reason to play on, Sammy,” Dean slung an arm around his shoulders: “Lady Luck owes us a turn.”

*

The roulette table wasn’t a friend to them, and the fruit machines were too dangerously addictive to hang around for long, but after a while Cas found the machines where you put a coin into a slot and tried to make it push other coins off a shelf. He exerted some kind of angel-power, glaring at the moving shelves with fiery intensity, until suddenly with a great shift a torrent of dollar coins clattered into the tray.

“Alright, dinner’s on Cas!” Dean clapped him on the shoulder, and they managed to tear the angel away from the casino before he developed a full-blown gambling habit.

“I could do that again,” Cas protested once they were outside.

“Wouldn’t advise it,” said Sam: “If you win too much security starts getting agitated. House always wins, you know.”

“We could go to a different establishment and I could repeat the maneuver,” said Cas.

“He might be on to something,” Dean said.

“Oh come on, like the casino owners don’t talk to each other,” Sam dismissed. “The cops would be trailing us in no time.”

“I guess you’re right,” Dean sighed. Figuring they should save as many of the dollars as possible, they found a grocery store, bought a loaf of bread, lunchmeat, candy bars, and some fruit, and smuggled it all back to the hotel room to make sandwiches. They also grabbed a few packets of ramen noodles for the road. Sam wrinkled his nose as he took his first bite of the dubious meat product.

“Aw come on, don’t be a princess,” Dean elbowed him. To Sam’s surprise he had mentioned neither fat nor sodium content.

“Me a princess?” Sam said. “You’re the one who drinks light beer.”

“Yeah well,” Dean shrugged. “That was then. Things are different now. This,” he gestured the sandwiches and noodles: “Well, it takes me back. You know, memories.”

Sam held still. It wasn’t often that Dean said anything revealing, and he realized with a start he knew very little about the man’s life before Sandover.

“I wasn’t born in a suit you know,” Dean said a little huffily. “Spam sandwiches were mom’s end-of-the-month special.”

“Oh,” Sam didn’t know what to say to that. He’d never had a great job, but he’d never been forced to live off bread and ramen either. His parents were comfortable, and he held a degree in software engineering from a reputable university. “So – how’d you get from there to a marketing director?” And promptly wished it were possible to punch oneself in the face.

“Lot of work, some luck,” Dean shrugged. “Started out as a driver for the company. Took some night classes in business school, and it turned out I was good at it. Got a bit of work organizing files and shit like that, and it went from there.

“It was also imperative to Heaven that you cease your occupation as a driver,” Cas put in.

Sam and Dean both turned to stare at him: “Huh?”

“Had you continued on your current path,” Cas said calmly, “You would shortly have been killed in a traffic accident: a head-on collision with an intoxicated van driver resulting in your instantaneous death. That was not acceptable to Heaven, for Leviathan had to be stopped.”

“Wait – you’re telling me – Heaven interfered? Like, got me a new job?”

“I got you a new job,” Cas clarified. “Acting on Heaven’s orders, I influenced the personnel manager.”

Dean gaped a little, then bit off, “Gee thanks Cas. Nice to know I’m such a hot property.” He stood up abruptly, and Sam said,

“Dean, wait-”

“I’m going to the bar,” Dean said. “Don’t wait up.”

He slammed the door behind him.

“Dean is upset,” Cas frowned and looked hurt.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam sighed.

“I do not understand.”

“Well – see, Cas, you sort of just changed his personal history.”

“I changed his personal history several years ago.”

“No I mean – the way he understands it. He probably thought he got that job by being talented and hardworking.”

“He is talented and hardworking. But had I not interceded, nobody would ever have noticed.”

Well, crap. That was –

“Look, Cas,” Sam sighed: “Humans don’t generally take that well to being – interceded with.”

“I do not understand the problem. Not only did this interception preserve Dean’s life, it led to a job he enjoys and excels at. Are you suggesting he would prefer that I had let him die?”

“No….but – look, Dean’s gone all these years thinking he worked his way up the company on his own merits. Now he’s learned that’s not true. It’s – well, it’s a blow to his pride.”

Cas frowned. “Should I apologise?”

“I don’t think so. I think just – leave him alone for a bit, let him get used to the idea.”

Cas bowed his head in acknowledgement.

“So – what about me?” Sam asked. “Any interception in my life?”

“Not on my part. If so, it would have been performed by your guardian angel.”

“And you guys don’t share information?”

“I was but a soldier,” said Castiel. “I carried out my orders. I did not ask questions.”

They amused themselves with the pay-per-view channel for a few hours. Castiel had discovered a liking for procedural cop shows – at least the episodes with a clear-cut villain and a just, satisfying conclusion.

“This Grissom is a man of good character,” he approved.

“He is,” agreed Sam.

Dean returned, drunk and bad-tempered, took a shower and went directly to the bed against the far wall. Cas looked apologetic and upset, then he made himself scarce. Sam considered trying to talk to him, but on second thoughts it was probably better to wait till he was sober. Unfortunately Dean’s black mood remained the whole journey to NY, shutting down any attempts at conversation with grunts and dark looks.

“We require money,” Cas said to Balthazar when they arrived.

“Cas!” Dean was startled out of his silence.

“Yes?”

“That’s – you -!” Dean was blushing.

“It’s considered rude to ask people for money, Cas,” Sam was cringing himself.

Balthazar rolled his eyes. He was stomach-down on a massage table, being worked on by what appeared to be a set of identical twin Scandinavian supermodels. The table was positioned on an outdoor balcony – fully heated, for the time of year – so that Balthazar could observe his attractive hangers-on play a scantily clothed tennis tournament.

“You people do make things more difficult than they have to be. That will do thank you Annika, Elena, go enjoy yourselves.” He shrugged and sat up, dislodging the supermodels, who left looking disappointed.

“Give me your MasterCard,” he said to Dean.

“What? No!” Dean exclaimed.

“I’m going to recharge it,” he said witheringly. “I won’t have Cassie sleeping in a car and eating at – wherever it is get food from,” he wrinkled his nose.

Dean looked at Sam. “What’s the worst he can do?” Sam shrugged. “The thing’s maxed out.”

Keeping one wary eye on Balthazar, Dean took his card from his wallet and handed it over by two fingers. Balthazar snatched it, closed his eyes, and the card glowed briefly.

“Your new credit limit is a million dollars,” he said, and tossed it back.

“I don’t want your charity,” snapped Dean.

“You don’t have it,” Balthazar grinned nastily. “Do you know what credit means? You have to pay it back. With interest. I just don’t want you running out of resources whilst you’re responsible for my little brother.”

Dean glowered at him.

“I don’t find it particularly fair that you’re making us pay to save the world,” Sam pointed out.

“And I don’t find it particularly fair that I can’t bring my favorite quagga to this century without disrupting the space-time continuum. Cry me a river.”

“Your what?”

“It was a kind of zebra. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Sam and Dean took the newly-charged MasterCard, and they retreated from the balcony to conduct the ritual in private. Balthazar mixed the three vials of blood in a stone basin, chanting a few words in language Sam didn’t recognize. Then Dean too the plain blade from its sheath in his backpack, and the angel lowered it summarily into the mixture. The room didn’t darken. Lightning didn’t flash out of season.

“Is that…it?” Dean asked.

“That’s the ritual,” Balthazar confirmed. “Of course, angels are generally lying arseholes, so there’s no telling whether it worked or not.”

Sam and Dean stared.

“And you didn’t see fit to tell us there’s a good chance this could be a suicide go?”

“The Scrolls are far older than the current administration of Heaven,” Cas said with absolute conviction. “They do not lie.”

“You’d better hope not,” Balthazar shrugged and handed over the blade. “One more thing. You can buy yourself time by beheading Leviathans. Any blade will do that. It won’t kill them, but it will slow them down while they find the head again. Good luck boys.”

The drive to NC wasn’t long, but it seemed to draw out because Dean was still being sullen and withdrawn. They didn’t starve, but given that they were living on borrowed money, nor did they take full advantage of the temporary riches Balthazar had put at their disposal. Consulting Google on Dean’s Blackberry, they detoured to the Baltimore Knife and Sword Company, and picked up a couple of long blades that looked capable of beheading a human. Several times Sam tried to talk to Dean. They needed to strategize for their upcoming confrontation with Roman. But Dean remained stubbornly non-communicative as they pulled off the Interstate into North Carolina.

 

Charlotte, NC, was a compact sprawl of skyscrapers and tower blocks, a contrast to the green hills and rolling forests of the state surrounding. The Marriot was expecting them – Crowley had contacted the demon wearing the manager, who disconcertingly recognized them at once.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” she grinned, stressing the term sarcastically, and led them into a conference room . Crowley was holding court with a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and men and women of all ages were milling around the room. Dean guessed between thirty and forty in total. Some were formally dressed, others in jeans and work shirts – there was nothing particularly wrong with their appearance, but en masse they produced a collective energy that made Dean’s skin crawl. Cas seemed to feel it more – he prickled, eyes widening as they crossed the threshold:

“Demons?” asked Sam, and Cas nodded.

The main tables were pushed to the sides to display an exotic buffet. Sushi, booze on ice, fruits and sweets on little skewers. Dean reached for a piece of cured meat on a toothpick:

“Don’t,” said Castiel sharply.

“Why not?”

“Meats favoured by demons would no doubt offend your cultural sensibilities.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t put it back on the plate when you’ve touched it!” Crowley glowered, coming over:

“That’s disgusting.”

“So – these are your people?” Sam glanced uneasily round the room.

“People, cannon fodder, call them what you will,” Crowley shrugged, then bellowed, “FRIENDS! THE GENTLEMEN OF THE HOUR HAVE ARRIVED!”

The plan, such as it was, was for contingents of Crowley’s demons to launch an assault on the building: simultaneously at the three major entrances. Whilst security was distracted, and rapidly learning that demons couldn’t be halted by bullets, Sam, Dean and Cas would slip in by a fire escape. Plans of Roman Headquarters were hard to come by, but Dean had visited the building once before, when Roman was still a relative up-and-comer, and Adler was still considering whether he could be bought out. Hopefully enough of Roman’s guards would be occupied by the break in that they could get to him. And if not – well –

“I will do something,” Cas said.

“What?” Sam asked.

“I do not know yet. What I can. For I am not powerless.”

Dean reminded himself of the feat with the goblin and tried to look reassuring.

“Definitely not,” Sam agreed.

With arrangements in place for the next day, Dean saw nothing better to do than get drunk again.

Before Cas had dropped the humiliating bombshell that his life had been a board game for angels, he’d been doing okay. He was still freaked about the gay thing, sure enough, but he was starting to consider the possibility of life after Roman. With Sam. He figured if he couldn’t get his old job back, he could find something…he was a resourceful guy after all. Or so he’d thought.

The little revelation that he wasn’t quite the self-made man he’d imagined himself to be had thrown him for a loop. It brought all the self-doubt rushing back, the utter confusion of being attracted to another man, the goddam mindwarp of all the stuff that existed in the world. So he sat at the hotel bar, projected a defensive aura, and steadily worked on bottle of Jose Cuervo – his customary drink for depression. He was being an asshole, and he knew it. The more he drank, the more he considered what an asshole he was being, which made him more depressed, which made him drink more.

“Sammy,” he said out loud to the empty glass. “Sorry for being a dick. It’s not your fault the angels are assholes.”

“I forgive you.”

Dean dropped the glass, which was thankfully thick enough not to break. Sam was standing behind him, warm and solid and amused.

“You know you’re the only person who calls me Sammy,” Sam said, taking the bar stool next to Dean. He blinked slowly and Dean realized that though he wasn’t wasted, Sam wasn’t entirely sober himself.

“We probably shouldn’t be all…hungover for the big showdown,” said Dean conspiratorially.

“Yeah but…you’re supposed to drink the night before you do something dumb and heroic right? Where you’re probably gonna die? That’s what they do in the movies.”

“I guess,” said Dean, then: “Sammy? D’you think we’re going to die?”

Sam poured himself a shot into Dean’s glass and drank it.

“It’s possible,” he said. “But I mean, we got angels and demons and the blade and all so….” He shrugged. “Probably got a better chance than anyone.”

“Yeah,” Dean said thoughtfully, and that was the bitch of it, he guessed: if anyone in the world could do this, for some stupid reason, it was him and Sam. Hell of a responsibility. And then it hit him, full force, that this could very well be his last night on earth, not metaphorically, not an emo song or a cheesy pick up line, but literally, this was it, here and now, him and Sam. And Sam was very close. And warm. And was looking at him with those big empathetic eyes (really, what color were they?) and if there was ever a time to do something brave, and stupid, and reckless –

\- Becky would totally tell him to go for it.

Dean kissed Sam.

It was bad kiss. It was sloppy, uncoordinated, and because Sam wasn’t expecting it, their teeth knocked together painfully. Sam opened his mouth and Dean’s tongue was inside it, and then Sam was grabbing the back of his head with one warm, large hand and returning the tongue full force. Ohfuckyesjesuschristsamiwantthisnow his whole body seemed to gasp in relief as he stood up and stumbled into Sam (fuck, was he the chick here?) and Sam caught him, steadied him, and an obnoxious catcall from across the bar had them separating, briefly, disturbed.

“Take this upstairs?” Sam panted.

“Oh God yes.”

Less than five minutes later they were on Sam’s bed, shirtless, pressing frantic kisses over each other’s bodies. Sam’s tongue was a brand against his throat, chest, stomach. Sam made a desperate sound and unzipped Dean’s pants. Dean had a moment of panic because another dude was about to touch his dick, dismissed it, and dropped his pants. He was painfully hard, and the moment Sam touched him he was afraid he would come like a teenager, but Sam said,

“I want to fuck you,”

And Mary Jesus and Joseph if that wasn’t the hottest thing Dean had ever heard. He was also worried:

“Is it gonna hurt?”

“Not much,” Sam said. “I’ll be careful.”

“Okay,” Dean panted. “What – do I do?”

“You let me do it,” Sam said. He pushed, so that Dean was lying back on the bed with Sam on his knees above him, and holy fuck, Sam was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen, his body and his stupid hippy hair and his kaleidoscopic slanted eyes dark and blown with need. “Relax.”  
Dean barked a short laugh: that was kind of a tall order in the current situation. Dean wasn’t averse to a little submission - he’d been with several girls before who liked to take command, and he’d always enjoyed that, but he’d never agreed to take anything up the ass before (to the disappointment of one adventurous Scottish liaison). He reached up and unzipped Sam’s pants in return, freeing his dick. Wow. Um. He supposed it made sense that a guy of Sam’s height wouldn’t exactly be lacking in that department, but frankly he couldn’t imagine it physically possible for that to get inside him. His arousal faded a moment.

“We – don’t have to,” Sam said.

“No,” Dean said quickly. Goddamit, but it wasn’t his style to back out of challenge. A wicked gleam lit in Sam’s eye and he bent his head to – ohhhh fuck. His gorgeous lips touched the head of Dean’s dick, opened, took just the tip in, and Dean was back to full hardness like someone had flicked a switch. Zing. Sam opened his mouth wider and took Dean in like a pro, whilst his other hand reached for something from the bedside cabinet. Dean recognized the squirt of lube, jumped at the first touch of cold fingers at his entrance, but Sam kept distracting him with his mouth and before he knew it Sam was opening him up. Despite his heart hammering his chest, arousal hammering through his body, he was really starting to feel like a princess now, so he reached down and started to work Sam’s dick with his right hand, familiar and foreign at once. Sam grunted, gasped but barely faltered in his rhythm, and another finger entered Dean with a twinge of pain.

“Wait a sec,” Sam gasped, pulling off Dean’s dick, lips shiny with precum and saliva. He fumbled with a condom wrapper with one hand – Dean took it off him and applied it, massaging, teasing, and Sam said,

“Ohmygodyes,” and that sound turned Dean on enough that he barely noticed the next finger slipping in. Even so, when Sam finally positioned himself and entered Dean – it hurt. Fuck. No two ways about that, it definitely hurt. It wasn’t horrendous or anything, but it wasn’t something he could figure doing for fun.…until Sam took Dean’s softening dick in one hand and started to move inside him.

Dean’s eyes flew open. Ohhh Jesus. That was - yeah, okay, he got it. Then the end of Sam’s dick hit something inside him - prostrate, his mind supplied, and he literally went blank for a second, sparks in front his eyes.

“FUCK!” he said.

“Yes?” Sam laughed, finding the place again. They found their rhythm, moved like that, and oh God. He was going to come. He was going to come now, all the breath knocked out of him, hitting a wall in the best possible way, he was coming all over Sam’s hand, and a second later Sam came inside him before literally collapsing, half on top of Dean, a hot solid way.

Wow. Wow. Dean got fucked by a dude. Dean got fucked by Sam Wesson, and he loved it.

There was no time to think of anything else before his eyes closed.


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up next to a warm body took Sam back several months, and he smiled to himself. Then he opened his eyes and the events of the past weeks came rushing back – he wasn’t in California with Madison. He was in North Carolina with a ragtag army of demons, a fallen angel – and Dean. In bed with Dean. Because last night –

\- Guilt, triumph, defensiveness clamored for primacy. Dean had been drunk. So had he – to a lesser extent. Dean didn’t look traumatized. He simply looked deeply asleep, with a trail of drool at one corner of his mouth, dark heavy eyelashes casting shadow across his cheekbones. He sniffed abruptly in sleep and shifted. Sam moved out of the way, got up and put his boxers on. Then he went into the bathroom.

He splashed water on his face and tried to gather his thoughts. Today they took down Dick Roman, or died. Fulfilled the Scrolls. Sam regarded himself in the mirror. He looked pale, nervous. Determined. And tomorrow? They would deal with that if they got there, he told himself firmly, and brushed his teeth.

Just as he was finishing, a cough and thump from the bedroom announced that Dean was awake. Sam swallowed his nerves and turned to face him. Dean looked – freaked. But he wasn’t running in the opposite direction.

“Uh, hey,” said Dean.

“Hey,” said Sam.

There was a pause, then Sam said, “So-“ and Dean said, “We-“ at the same time, then they both said, “You first.”

Pause.

Sam cleared his throat. “That was great. Last night. Thanks.”

Dean’s face shuttered.

“Are – you okay?” Sam asked carefully.

“Oh yeah, great.”

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Jesus Sam, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I got fucked up the ass for the first time in my life, by the guy who’s supposed to be my soulmate or something, and he brushes it off like a night with some motel skank.”

“Oh – no! I didn’t mean-….” Sam was blushing. “Dean.” He stepped forwards, touched Dean’s  
face. Dean didn’t move, but he didn’t respond. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

“I want us to be together,” Sam leaned in, rested their foreheads together. “I just didn’t want to – scare you. Make it sound like I expected anything you didn’t want.”

“What do you want, Sam?”

Sam considered. “I want – you,” he said to his own surprise. “After this. Always.”

Dean stared at him.

Sam’s phone rang.

“Dammit,” he cursed.

“Take it, it could be important,” Dean said.

Sam fumbled for his pants and retrieved his phone.

“Sam?” said Becky excitedly.

“Oh, hi, Bex….”

Sam and Dean exchanged raised eyebrows.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Well…what?”

“Oh my GOD, you DID!” Sam held the phone away from his ear as Becky squealed down the line.  
“You gave into your destined passion on the eve of the decisive battle! I KNEW IT!”

“Um…”

Dean had gone bright red: Becky was talking so loud he could hear her. Sam suspected he was in much the same state.

“Give. Me. Details,” Becky ordered, and he could hear her tapping away on her keyboard.

“Er, Becky, shouldn’t you be more concerned with the fact we’re facing Roman today?”

“Oh I was getting to that,” she said. “But really, what’s a dénouement without the  
declarations of true love beforehand? Hey,” suddenly her tone changed. “Don’t get killed.”

“We’ll…try not to?”

“I mean it,” Becky sounded suddenly worried. “I just realized how narratively appropriate it would be. You’ve declared your unending love, right? That you’ll stay together forever?”

Sam and Dean’s eyes met.

“Well, well that’s just the sort of thing that would happen before one of you dies! Like defending the other one! So don’t die.” She was genuinely upset now.

“Becky, we….” Sam sighed. “Look, obviously, we’ll try our best not to die.”

“Promise me,” she said grimly.

“I can’t.”

“Then promise each other.”

Dean stared at Sam. His eyes were suddenly bright. Vulnerable.

“We – can’t do that either,” Sam said. “Becky I have to go. We’re meeting the demons in two  
hours.” Castiel had filled Becky in on the Crowley plan during the car ride to NC.

Becky blew out her breath. “Okay. Be brave, Sam.”

“Um, thanks?”

“YOU TOO DEAN!” she shouted, and Sam winced, pulling the phone from his ear again. “I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW NO HARD FEELINGS, OKAY? YOU AND SAM ARE MEANT TO BE. PLUS YOU TWO TOGETHER IS THE HOTTEST PHYSICAL POSSIBILITY IN THE UNIVERSE!”

“Um, thanks, Becky,” Dean sounded confused. “See you soon. I hope.”

“Godspeed, young warriors,” said Becky fervently, and Sam hung up.

“So…” He said.

“So…” said Dean.

Sam took a deep breath. “Let’s take Becky’s advice on that, okay? Trying not to die.”

“I will if you will.”

“Deal,” Sam said, and to his delight, Dean reached up, took his face in his hands, and pulled him down for a kiss.

*

 

At 0830 on Monday, November 4th, a rental car full of demons in crashed directly into the glass doors of Roman Enterprises HQ, North Carolina. Simultaneously, hails of gunfire pummeled the back entrance, meatsuits rushing headlong from perimeter fences, demons inside propelling them forwards long after the hosts were dead. The media left out the part about demons – the days’ events would later be attributed to ‘radicals’ – some sort of anti-American, anti-Capitalist guerilla group, pundits agreed grimly. Reports of ‘black eyes’ from passers-by were easily dismissed: trauma and all. As Roman’s security forces flooded the entrances, an angel wearing the body of a radio ad salesman placed one hand on the exterior lock of a fire exit, which glowed brightly for a moment before clattering to the metal staircase.

“Cool,” said Dean Smith.

“Yeah nice job Cas,” said Sam Wesson, and Castiel bowed his head in acknowledgment.

They got halfway down the first corridor before a meathead in a suit appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Dean by the throat and slammed him against the wall. He threw back his head, grinning, and opened a mouth full of horrible teeth Sam drew his sword – the non-magic one – and beheaded the monster in one swing. The head bounced away down the corridor. The body dropped Dean and collapsed.

“Wow,” said Sam, staring at his own hand.

“Yeah nice swing Banderas,” Dean gasped.

“We must hurry,” said Castiel.

Word was spreading. Despite the concerted attacks, more Leviathan converged on them as they moved towards Dick’s top floor office. Sam took two more out – Dean one, and complained that he was starting to feel like the chick in this scenario. Then, just as Dean was distracted with ducking the reach of one of them, a second grabbed him from behind, and as Sam turned on his heel to try and help him, he was literally knocked to the ground by a particularly massive specimen. The thing towered over him, opened its mouth and Sam thought, ‘this is it’, mesmerized momentarily by the flickering snake tongue of the thing – when it burned bright, fizzled, collapsed before him, and Dean’s captor did the same. Dean quickly beheaded the third monster, and they both turned to Castiel slumped against the wall, panting.

“They won’t stay down,” he said. He was grey with the effort expended, and looked suddenly – shockingly – small. “Go.”

“What do you mean, go?” Dean demanded.

“That was – that was – more than I have attempted. In a long time. I am depleted. And will slow you down.”

“Screw that!” Dean grabbed one of Cas’s arms and slung it over his shoulder. Cas looked surprised and awkward. “Come on, we’re almost there!”

Sam guarded them both with his sword, dispatched one more Leviathan, then the large doors to Roman’s office were before them, steel and glass. The three exchanged looks. Dean was still supporting Cas, so Sam re-sheathed the regular sword, and drew the magic one. Then he breathed deeply and pushed the door open.

Nothing happened.

Hesitantly, they stepped inside, Sam still holding the sword out in front of them. The door immediately slid shut behind them, muting the noise of fighting and shouts from the rest of the building. Dean couldn’t help it if his eyes widened a little as he took it in. Panoramic views of the city, a huge, gorgeous desk, with the thinnest and lightest of desktop computers built subtly in to rise at the touch of a button. The deep wood cabinets displayed photographs of Roman with world leaders, astronauts, football stars. A Japanese water feature tinkled daintily in one corner, and the sprinkle of classical music fell incongruously on the air.

“Gentlemen.”

All three spun around, startled: Roman had appeared from a second door, concealed and silent in the oak paneled walls. He looked impeccable: powerful, with his toothpaste-commercial smile, perfect haircut, and a suit that would make Balthazar jizz himself in ecstasy. A light of madness was in his eyes. He spread his hands: “Welcome to Roman Headquarters.”

“To your lair you mean, you, you, monster.” Okay it wasn’t Dean’s finest riposte. Sue him.

“Oh Dean,” Roman grinned. He wagged a finger in mock-friendly admonishment, then tucked his hands behind his back. “Dean Smith, Head of Sales and Marketing at Sandover. I have been wanting to meet you.”

Dean blinked, not at all flattered that Dick Roman knew who he was.

“A talent like yours I could use in my staff,” said Roman casually. “You know what I see when I look at you Dean?”

“Let me guess, dinner?” Dean wasn’t listening. He was immune to Roman’s mindfuck. Roman could offer him the world and he’d –

“Senior. Management. Material.”

Dean gulped.

“Dean, don’t listen he’s tempting you!” Sam said.

“Adler never appreciated a good thing,” Roman walked slowly towards Dean, smiling and  
predatory. “Angels had to blindside him to make him pay attentions. But I, Dean, I know how to reward a man with talent. Someday all this could be yours.” He gestured around the beautiful office. “My staff at your disposal, on your own merits…”

“Yeah too bad,” Sam bit off. “Your staff is kind of otherwise occupied.”

“Interesting. Working with demons,” Roman sneered. “I suppose they have their uses on the front line. The grunt workers of world domination.” His eyes flicked over Sam derisively, then back to Dean. “But you, Dean Smith, are no grunt. You’re a winner. A shark.”

“Well thanks,” said Dean edgily. “But no thanks. Think I’ll stick with the non-psychotic team.” Some spark of flattered interest had lit in him at Roman’s words. Sure, he was evil, but he was also the most successful and brilliant man – okay, monster, - in the country. But then he looked back to Sam and Cas, felt the hilt of his blade in his hand – and no. it was no contest. Sam had asked him once if he was happy at Sandover, and the answer was no. the past weeks – as insane, and dangerous, and physically painful as they had certainly been, were the happiest he had ever been in his life.

“Too bad all you’ll end up with a bunch of dead meatsuits,” Roman snapped. “We can’t be killed, you stupid cattle. Didn’t you know?”

“You can be killed,” Castiel spoke for the first time from where Dean had deposited him on a leather sofa. Roman’s eyes flickered to him, and for a second – flickered with something like uncertainty.

“Well well well,” he said, grin faltering just slightly. “What have we here?”

“I am Castiel,” said Cas, sitting up straighter. Even grey and sick-looking, there was something unearthly around him: “An angel of the lord. and these are the warriors who will defeat you.”

“The what?” said Roman sharply.

“You heard him,” said Sam. “This sword is bathed in the blood of the Three Fallen.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Roman.

“Why would we do that?”

Roman’s face hardened and a grim look crossed his features. He reached one hand out slowly and pressed a button on his desk. The door in the wall slid open again and two massive Leviathan emerged, one on either side of him.

“Get the sword,” he said shortly, and they both lunged for Sam, and Dean found himself diving in and then he was fighting with one of the huge men, and he heard Sam yell as he struggled to keep hold of the weapon. The Leviathan landed a meaty fist in Dean’s side and he bent double, gasping, but had no time to gather his breath because the thing was opening its mouth and ready for lunge to him. He slashed at its leg with his blade, biting to bone, and the thing bent forwards, off balance, but now the other one had Sam against the wall, pinning him by the throat. Sam was choking. The blade clattered to the floor from his fingers. Dean stumbled towards him but the Leviathan grabbed his arm, and he cried out as it twisted and something cracked, pinning and forcing him to watch as Roman confronted Sam, who was turning purple.

“Really,” Roman sneered. “You couldn’t have put up more of a fight? I like to play with my food.”

“NO!” screamed Dean as the monster squeezed around Sam’s throat and Sam made a gurgling sound, he would break his neck –

\- Then the thing holding Dean arched, fizzed and burned, collapsing to the floor and releasing him.

“Go,” gasped Castiel, before falling to his knees, one hand still extended where he’d touched the monster. Adrenalin numbing the pain in his arm, Dean lunged forward, grabbed the sword, and came up nose-to-nose with Roman:

“Gonna have to decline your offer,” he said, and thrust the sword into his chest.  
Roman’s jaw dropped. He sputtered. His eyes bugged out. He let out a sound that was almost a laugh, and then, as though in slow motion, his knees started yo buckle. There was a rushing sound, and then horribly, black goo exploded from every orifice of his body. It sprayed Dean from head to too, splattered everyone else, coated the walls and furniture with an audiblesplat.

A beat of silence.

Then the thing choking Sam dropped him, collapsing into a lake of the same stuff. It gushed over the floor. The one Cas had taken down also imploded, and Dean had a nasty vision of the same thing happening everywhere in the building. It was gonna be an oil spill out there.

“You okay?” he asked Sam numbly, and Sam, still gasping, gave him a thumbs-up.

“Cas?” Dean asked.

Silence.

Dean turned around, a cold feeling settling in his gut. Cas was slumped on the ground where he’d fried the Leviathan, eyes closed, unmoving.

“Cas!” Dean shouted and dashed for him:

“What happened?” Sam wheezed.

“He – he-” ‘Burned himself out’. The thought came abruptly to Dean’s mind, then: ‘Balthazar is gonna literally kill us’.

“Cas?” Dean knelt and put a hand on the angel’s shoulder. Nothing. He moved his good hand to Cas’s throat and felt for a pulse.

Cas’s eyes sprang open and he reached up, grabbing Dean’s hand. “Thank you, that is unnecessary,” he said in his gravelly voice.

Sam and Dean breathed out simultaneously in relief.

“I am well,” Castiel continued. “I merely require time to – recharge.” Decisively, he released Dean’s arm, and passed out again.

*

 

Sam and Dean regarded the queen bed, then regarded each other. In the room’s other bed, Cas was still sound asleep, though he’d woken up long enough to congratulate them and request an ice cream in ‘food of the fish’ flavor. He’d fallen asleep again halfway through it, and they didn’t really want to leave him alone in the hotel room; leaving him in the car whilst they made a quick stop at the local ER had been bad enough. Balthazar had informed them over the phone that Cas would probably sleep for a couple of days, on and off. Then he’d said, in a tone that could only be described as reluctantly admiring,

“Hey – fellas – good job on the monster mashing. Earth wouldn’t be much fun anymore if I had to share it with Leviathan.”

“Well we couldn’t have done it without you.” Sam was feeling warm and fuzzy, so sue him. Balthazar started laughing:

“Good God, you sound like you’ve been deep-throating a toilet brush. Celebration?”

“Fuck you,” said Sam, and hung up. Now, with Dean’s fractured arm in a cast and Sam stocked up on anti-inflammatories and informed that sorry, there weren’t any real remedies for almost getting strangled, they were both completely exhausted and down to one bed. It shouldn’t be a big deal. They had fucked. But sleeping together in the literal sense was different. Intimate. Sam realized he’d had sex with a lot more people than he’d actually slept with.

“So,” he said.

“Shut up,” said Dean, “You’re not supposed to talk unnecessarily.”

Sam rolled his eyes and gestured emphatically to the bed.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “I think so.”

And, a though having made a distinct distinction, unzipped his pants with his good hand, appeared to dismiss his shirt, collapsed onto the bed and pulled half the covers over him.

“Get in,” he said.

Sam hesitated, then did as Dean said.

“Hey, this could have its advantages,” Dean grinned and gestured to the bandage at Sam’s throat. “You have to do what I say all the time.”

Sam gestured to Dean’s cast, then flipped him off with both hands. Dean laughed. They lay down with their heads on the same pillow, their noses close. The awkwardness threatened to return for a moment. Dean’s eyes were very green in the room’s light, and his breath tickled Sam’s cheek. Sam said,

“I meant everything.”

“Shh,” said Dean.

“No I have to say this,” it hurt, and he swallowed. “I want us to stay together, Dean.”

Pause.

“I want that too.”

“But I don’t want to go back to Ohio.”

Pause.

“I hated it there,” Sam said.

“Then we won’t,” said Dean.

“But,” said Sam, “Balthazar said he could get you your job back…”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t want it.”

Sam’s eyes widened.

“Roman was wrong,” Dean said simply. “I’m not a – a – a corporate douchebag. I don’t want power at any price. I don’t need a fancy office and a paycheck I don’t even know what to do with and my name on a brass plaque. I need you. And…maybe a car,” he added. Sam grinned.

“Dean, I’m falling in love with you,” he said.

“Well I should hope so, after all that,” Dean muttered, and pulled his head down for a kiss.

“How else is Becky gonna finish her book?”


	7. Epilogue

Becky Rosen beamed excitedly as she held up a copy of her book for the store photographer. Her book. With her name on the cover, and her words on the actual physical pages. Okay, so the advance wouldn’t do more than cover her bills and groceries for a few months, particularly not once she’d thrown a party to celebrate, but Bound Temptations was a small press and besides, it wasn’t like she wrote for the money or anything so crass. It would be a total boost for the independent bookstore stocking her work when people realized she was an actual apostle.

“These characters do not represent the Scroll Warriors,” Castiel frowned and picked up a copy for the book from her signing table, inspecting the cover.

“Oh, well I didn’t design the illustration,” Becky shrugged. “I agree though, Sam and Dean are much hotter.”

“Sam and Dean do not go shirtless in public,” Castiel observed.

“No,” agreed Becky wistfully, gazing across at her muses. Sam and Dean were pretending to inspect the shelves on the other side of the small store, but actually sneaking glances at each other in the most adorable way, which considering they’d been together for six months now, was just about the cutest display of awkwardness Becky had ever seen. She’d insisted they turn up for her big signing, and Castiel had backed her. It was the least they could do, really, what with her being the one to immortalize their story. Cas was now reading the back of a book:

“Nor am I convinced this is an accurate summary,” he complained. “As I recall, there were no ‘flaming sparks of delicious desire’ present in the atmosphere. Indeed, that sounds highly dangerous.”

“It’s a metaphor,” Becky explained. “Plus you know, the blurb’s got to draw people in.”  
After completing their quest, Sam, Dean and Cas had vanished for a couple of months. Sam wouldn’t provide details, but decoding Cas, she surmised that they’d taken a sightseeing holiday – a honeymoon, really, with distractions to keep the angel occupied. The highlight of Cas’s trip – apart from the world’s largest teapot – had been coming nose-to-nose with a black bear in the Rocky Mountains.

“Dean was most alarmed,” Cas confided, “But it was needless. The bear was a peaceful soul, and he and I had much communication.”

“That’s…awesome,” Becky said.

“The mountains were awesome,” Cas smiled, “As was the sun rising over the canyons of Utah. Earth contains much suffering, Rebecca, but also much magnificence.”

“Oh my God, are you Becky Rosen?”

“YES!” Becky sprang up, disturbing the pile of paperbacks and almost whacking Cas in the face, to greet her first actual fan.

“I just LOVED Sacred Warrior Bond! It was SO ROMANTIC and SO HOT!”

“I KNOW RIGHT!” Becky squeed and embraced her fan, a petite redhead who was clutching a copy to her chest.

“Sign my book?” asked the girl breathlessly.

“Of course!”

“My name’s Lottie. I can’t wait to read what you’re going to write next. Please tell me there’s a sequel. I want to know what happened next. There are still monsters, right? Are Sam and Dean going to save the world again?”

Becky considered. It was a terrible shame Sam had moved in with him rather than vice versa. Oh God, imagine both of them living across from her! The endless inspiration! She watched Sam laugh at something that Dean said, and the look in Dean’s eyes that could only be described as quiet adoration. Cas said Dean had left Sandover shortly before it folded, and started his own small business designing websites from home whilst Sam worked admin at a local college. They were renting a place with an actual garden, and last week Sam had told her he was thinking about adopting a puppy. “I will definitely write more,” she promised Lottie, “But you know? I’m inclined to say Sam and Dean lived happily ever after.”

 

~ THE END. ~

Extra:  Messages received by Becky, during the post-quest roadtrip.

 

Voicemail received 9/01/09 at 21:58

Dean: ….writing shit like that about me….Becky I don’t get drunk when I’m jealous. I mean [inaudible]. Look. I’m sympathetic and all because Sam is pretty awesome. And hot. I mean really, really hot. And

[inaudible]

Sam: (muffled) […]’s answerphone again?

Dean: NO

Castiel: (muffled) Sam, Dean is harassing the Apostle.

Dean: SNITCH!

[inaudible]

Dean: Stop emailing.

Sam: [inaudible]

Dean: You just…write your little story and….leave Sam alone! He doesn’t wanna be pen pals, okay? He-

[scuffling]

[Answerphone beeps]

**Author's Note:**

> Did you spot the plot element I totally got Kripked (Carvered? Edlunded?) on? Three trials! I swear my mouth dropped open when they happened onscreen. Anyway, if anyone is reading this on an ereader, please let me know how the mixed media at the end appeared. If it came out okay I will attempt to put some of the awesome art that was created for this fic into this version.


End file.
